Mercy
by CommanderLexaTrash
Summary: After Wade disappeared in the middle of the night, loyal girlfriend and fellow mercenary Frankie was determined to find him. Her clues led her to a woman named Angel who claims that Wade was captured, possibly murdered, by a villain named Deadpool. Eager for revenge, Frankie joins Angel and new mentor Ajax in training to kill the menace who hurt the man she loves.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Frankie couldn't concentrate, but that wasn't anything new.

Ever since Wade left, her normally short attention span became almost non-existent—a huge problem, considering she dedicated all of her free time to finding where he'd gone. She ran her fingers over the colorful collection of pamphlets that decorated her desk, then glanced up to the laptop screen where she saw the address for the medical facility that the phone number on the business card she found in Wade's pocket was connected to.

Frankie had to admit that she did quite a bit of digging to unearth that jewel of information. But just when she thought she found a lead, it was snatched from her palm. Because upon visiting the medical facility, she found it was burned to the ground.

Frankie did a lot of research at home, but the only news stories seemed to reference the building as an abandoned outpost of some sort. No casualties. She chewed on her bottom lip, running over her options for the millionth time. If Wade wasn't in China, or Chechnya, or Ukraine (or any other pamphlet featured facility), then where did he go?

Because he couldn't have just run away from her. Yes, he was scared of the cancer and scared of letting her down, but Frankie made it clear that she was with him for better or worse. The ring on her finger—once a candy treat, now covered in rubies—affirmed this. What if something had happened to him? His mouth had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion… maybe one of his victims came back to pay him a visit.

But if he was murdered, wouldn't she have heard? Frankie groaned, running her nails against her temple in frustration. She was at a dead end. She needed to accept that news might come later—or really, maybe not at all—but she loathed giving up control. She knew she could find him if only she was given a hint.

Luckily, her brother understood. Weasel promised to keep an eye and ear out for the man who had spoken to them… Frankie knew if she could meet with him, she could track Wade down.

She compulsively checked her phone for any notifications and came up empty. It was almost two in the morning… She needed to sleep. More than anything, she needed to rest. She couldn't help Wade if she wasn't ready to fight. And her limbs, still aching from hours on the punching bag at her martial arts studio earlier that day, screamed for peace.

Frankie sighed and moved towards her bed. Maybe later she would get lucky. She closed her eyes, and images of her fiancé flooded her mind. She tossed and turned, hoping to welcome sleep, but her mind would not stop churning. It had been months since anyone heard from Wade, but maybe… Maybe she could go back to the burned wreckage, search for more clues… she could spend another night asking around Sister Margaret's, see if anyone heard any rumblings about Wade… she could—

Her phone cried in a shrilly tone, causing her eyes to snap open. She didn't need to check caller ID to know who it'd be.

"Hey," Frankie said breathlessly. "What's going on?"

Weasel ignored her nicety. "There's a woman here who wants to speak with you," he said, his voice low. "Said she knows about Wade."

Frankie bolted upright in bed, more awake than ever despite her lack of sleep. Her anxious heart pounded in her chest. This was it… this was it… this was…

"I'll be right there."


	2. One

**One**

Frankie wasn't always in love with Wade. In fact, the first time she met him, she thought he was nothing more than a giant, throbbing sack of dicks that wouldn't shut the fuck up.

"Sorry, sis," Weasel said, pouring her a shot of tequila. "Your job was snatched tonight."

"By who?" Frankie demanded, her eyes narrowed. She downed the shot, savoring the burning sensation in her throat. "Everyone here _knows_ I take those jobs."

"I know. I even tried to tell him that…" Weasel's expression changed from sympathy to a smile. He said pleasantly, "Hey, Wade."

The man named Wade fell into the stool next to Frankie. He pulled off his faux fur lined coat and rubbed his hands together eagerly like he was expecting a meal. Frankie watched him carefully as he exchanged quick niceties with Weasel; his skin seemed hardened from years of aggressive work, but his eyes still held a kind smile. Her heart skipped slightly, acknowledging that he was, objectively, attractive. But then her logical mind reminded her of the cash she missed out on.

To his sister, Weasel said, "That's Wade. You can blame him."

Wade's eyes narrowed with confusion, but Frankie had already turned her anger on her brother's friend. She growled, balling her fists in her lap, "I needed that money."

"Not even a hello, nice to meet you?" he teased.

His kindness took her off guard. But Frankie shot him a patronizing look. "Not sure I owe you one."

"Be nice, sis," Weasel warned, pouring out three more shots.

"Sis?!" Wade's jaw fell onto the bar, his eyes wide with shock. "Seriously? You… and her? Oh, please," his hand touched Frankie's thigh, "Take this as a compliment. You look _nothing_ like him."

"I'm right here, you know," Weasel scowled, nudging two of the shots towards them.

Wade chuckled, then raised his shot in honor of the bartender. "You know I love you, you sexy dog." Despite the lame toast, the three downed the alcohol. "What's your name?"

"Frankie," she said. "I'm still annoyed with you for taking my job."

"Here." He pulled out his wallet and gave her a folded fifty dollar bill. "Take it. The girl can have the rest. I don't want it."

Frankie opened her mouth to reply, but Weasel explained, "Wade's got a soft spot for these cases."

Frankie grunted, pushing the money back towards Wade. "I can tell. Next time, save it for me."

"Don't be sour," Wade scolded. "We're all working for the greater good."

She snorted at the idea of threatening men with their lives as being the greater good. Well, maybe her jobs could be construed that way—she only took cases from women who were threatened by men: stalking, rape, abuse… If the man learned his lesson and stayed away, it certainly would be better for the victim.

"I am," she said with finality. "I don't know about you."

"Well," he said lightly, "I didn't kill this one."

"I never kill," she countered; she wasn't even sure why—at this point, she thought she just wanted to win whatever argument they were having.

"How come?"

Frankie was annoyed by Wade's incessant questions. "Sorry, can't say."

He pressed, "Why not?"

"You have to be at least friend level 30 to unlock that tragic back story," she joked. Behind the bar, she saw her brother smirk.

He barked a laugh. "Fine. How much experience do I need to get there?"

Frankie shook her head. "Too much. Keep dreaming." To her brother, she said, "Thanks for the drink, dude. If I'm not working tonight, I think I'm gonna go hit the gym."

"The gym?" Wade faked a gasp. "My arm's really sore from earlier… maybe you can help me stretch it out."

Frankie didn't acknowledge his comment, choosing instead to head to the exit. Unfortunately for her, Wade was like a puppy begging for attention at heels.

"Did I invite you?" she snapped once they reached the other end of the bar.

"Sort of," he grinned.

She knew that Wade was just trying to be friendly, but she'd already filled her social quota for the day with clients at the gym and was ready to be alone. Her hours instructing were being cut so she needed these mercenary gigs to help boost her paychecks. Frankie knew with her legal history and skills that she probably couldn't be hired in something mundane like retail. So it was extra aggravating that this guy, especially a guy who knew Weasel, snatched her paycheck without batting an eye. It was just like a man to do that to her.

When she didn't answer, Wade said, "So I'll take that as a yes?"

She ground her teeth into her jaw, fury surging through her chest. If he kept talking, she couldn't promise she wouldn't hit him square in the face.

Before Frankie could commit to either telling him off or just running away, he spoke again, his voice low beneath the bar chatter..

"Sorry for taking your case," he said honestly, though it didn't totally soften her anger.

"Thanks," she said stiffly.

"Why don't you stay? Have a drink? Want a blowjob?"

Frankie's eyes widened. "What?"

"Oh, Frankie. When a man and a woman love each other, the woman will usually put the man's penis in her mouth until he ejaculates." She must have made a face that said "really?", because Wade followed up with, "I can tell you how your target handled my presence. Spoiler alert: pretty sure he shit his pants."

"Another time," she said, forcing a rigid smile despite her lip's best efforts at scowling.

Thankfully, Wade backed down. "Alright. You're missing out on a good story. I got a pizza out of it too."

Frankie had to admit she was a little intrigued, but she didn't want to encourage him.

"I believe you," she said honestly, grateful for the escape from the bar. As she neared the door, she told him, "Weirder things have happened in our line of work."


	3. Two

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed: Guest, Ammachibi, and Nitebreaker! I LOVE hearing what you guys think! It makes me smile.**

* * *

 **Two**

Over the next two weeks, Frankie tried her best to avoid running into Wade Wilson at Sister Margaret's. Unfortunately for her, he didn't keep as reliable a schedule as she did. So when she expected him to be out, doing whatever or whoever, he was there, hamming it up with Weasel and the other bar flies. And when she braced herself to hear hours his blathering tales (some more interesting than others), his barstool was empty.

Even Frankie had to admit on days that Wade wasn't there, the silence next to her could be too much. She never thought she'd miss him, even if it was only slightly.

"He's way into you," Weasel told her while handing over a gold card with a man's name and crime emblazoned on it.

"I know," she said simply, pocketing the card. And it was true—Wade wasn't subtle. Frankie, though, was not afraid to draw the line as to what he could and couldn't say to her, or how he could and couldn't touch her. She remembered the first night in the bar when his hand met her thigh and she cringed; she should've smacked him right then and there—drawn a thicker line to show her disinterest in dating.

"He's persistent," her brother insisted. "I've been telling him to back down, but…"

"He won't shut up long enough to listen to you?"

Weasel nodded. "You should at least try to get to know. Oh, and hey, be safe with that guy tonight. Bailey—I think that's her name—said he doesn't like being told what to do."

"You know me, big bro," Frankie winked. "Always playing it safe."

Behind her, Wade's voice cut through their conversation. "Condom safe or abstinence safe? One still runs the risk of disease, you know."

She groaned. "Hello, Wade."

"That's my girl," Wade grinned. He was wearing the same faux fur jacket and white shirt as the first night they met; by contrast, she was clad in dark skinny jeans and a leather coat. "You're leaning manners."

"Piss off," she rolled her eyes. "I've gotta work."

"Need some help?" Even though she was walking at a determined pace, Wade was right behind her as always, talking at a million words per second. "I'm in the mood for a good ass kicking. Not my ass, of course, someone else's… oh, listen to me, rambling on about my ass, and I haven't even asked how your day is going!"

Frankie had heard enough; all she wanted for tonight was to do a job alone and then go home. She grabbed Wade by the collar and threw him against a brick wall near the sidewalk. He didn't even flinch under her touch, which she thought was odd.

"I KO'd a three hundred pound man of muscle in three kicks to the head," she hissed, hoping her eyes reflected the threatening tone in her voice. "I don't need your help."

"So… your day was good?"

Frankie released him with a frustrated scowl. She was used to dealing with men of all sorts: condescending, manipulative, aggressive… But she couldn't figure out Wade's game, especially knowing that he liked her. Was he hoping to wear her down with enough words that she might agree to date him? How could he possibly not understand her very clear "leave me alone" hints?

"Wade, please," she pleaded. "I don't want to do this."

"I'm happy to," he gestured for her to hand over the card.

"That's not what I mean," she sighed. Normally, she could cut through men with a knife—figuratively and literally—but part of her didn't want to hurt his feelings. She chalked it up to him being Weasel's friend; after all, he hadn't tried to take advantage of her in any way that made her blatantly uncomfortable.

"Alright, Frankie," he said. "But if you want company, call the bar and I'll come running."

Frankie watched silently as Wade turned around and headed back to the bar. A surge of mixed feelings climbed up her throat—relief, regret, bitterness—before she burst.

"Wait!"

Wade faced her, clearly confused. "What?"

She couldn't believe she was saying this. But Weasel did tell her to make an effort at getting to know him. And if her brother trusted him, maybe she could too. "You can come if you want."

"I don't want to intrude."

 _Yeah, right,_ she thought. She said, "Come on. How was your day?"

"Oh, fine," he rambled, slowly falling into stride next to her. "I need to join a gym. My muscles aren't bouncing back quite like they used to when I was in the military."

"Military?" she asked, secretly glad he could do all the talking.

"Special forces. Why? Were you in?"

Frankie shook her head. "No, no. I was in a different government program."

"Did you get to wear a funny beret too?"

"No, but I did get a uniform." Her skin prickled with her sudden honesty. She cleared her throat and glanced at the gold card her brother gave her. "This jerk apparently likes to hang in the motel down the road. I think I know how you can help."

Wade clapped his hands together triumphantly. "Great! I volunteer to be the prostitute!"

* * *

Frankie quickly learned that Wade was an expert in few specialized areas: martial arts, weapons, and running his mouth.

He told her about his desire to travel to "new and exotic places" and how the military seemed like a decent fit. Wade wasn't ashamed to spill pieces of his soul to her, while she clammed up when he asked her to clarify which government program she meant. She may have been ready to try being friendly (try being the keyword), but her secrets would die with her and her brother.

Frankie managed to change the conversation by explaining her plan once they found the rotted, burgundy door marked room 110. She would enter, acting as an aggressive call girl. She would dominate him, then Wade would enter acting as a jealous boyfriend with a gun threatening to kill both of them. After Joe Schmoe shit his pants, Frankie would deliver her message and they could be on their way.

"Great," Wade cocked his pistol. "It's your party."

Frankie mussed her blonde hair so the waves looked a little bigger than normal, applied a dark shade of lipstick she found buried in her jacket pocket, and adjusted her bra so it pushed up her breasts. She saw Wade watching with interest out of the corner of her knew. Yep—if she had his attention, she was ready.

As she predicted, the door to room 110 was already open. Her target was sprawled out on the cheap, thin mattress, staring glassily at the TV in front of him. His body was bloated with bottles of booze scattered around him, and his lips were pursed together, drinking in the porn in front of him. It took him a moment to realize that his door had opened and Frankie stood at the edge of his bed.

"Hey there, stud," she said coyly, gently touching his hand. "How are you?"

His wild eyes widened with anger. He said gruffly, "I didn't ask for a blonde."

Well, that was a first. Frankie sat near his legs, rubbing her fingers up his clothed thigh.

"Are you sure?" she teased, her voice low. "Close your eyes, baby. I can be anyone you want me to be."

The man seemed to snap in his drunken stupor. His burly fist lunged for her throat, knocking her hard onto the carpeted concrete floor. She scurried on her hands and feet backwards like a crab until she was far enough away that she could stand. The man charged at her with a roar, and she landed a hard kick in his gut that knocked him backwards.

As he got back up, Wade burst through the door, gun drawn. He confidently charged the man and pressed the barrel against his forehead.

"You like hitting women?" he growled. When the man didn't respond, still clearly trying to grasp the sudden change, Wade shouted, "ANSWER ME!"

Frankie's skin prickled at his power. Her stomach flipped in a strange, but welcome, sensation.

The man stammered, "I don't… I don't…"

"You do," Frankie said. She drew a dagger from her pocket and unsheathed it slowly so he could watch. "You know what I don't like?"

The man's eyes flitted between Wade's gun and Frankie's knife. Nervous sweat poured down his forehead.

She didn't wait for an answer. She pressed the knife against his throat, allowing Wade to take a step back. The man fell against the bed; Frankie pressed her high heeled boot into his groin, causing him to groan unpleasantly. "Men who abuse women."

The man panted. "I don't…"

"Oh I know you do," she said coyly, digging her heel into his testicles. The man yelped with pain. "You had a beautiful girlfriend you beat the hell out of. I know because I'm her friend. And I really don't like it when shitstains like you hurt my friends."

"Okay!" he burst.

"Okay?" she laughed menacingly. Frankie pressed the knife against his wrist along the protruding vein, drawing a stream of blood. "You will _never_ hurt another woman again, you got it? And don't worry, if you do, my knife and I will find you again."

"Mercy!" he yelled, fat tears streaking down his cheeks. He flailed beneath her grip, but between the knife against his arm and her heel in his balls, he couldn't move without increasing one of the pain sources. "Please, mercy!"

"What'd you say?"

"Mercy!" he sobbed.

With that, Frankie released his bloodied wrist and groin. She stepped backwards into Wade, who grabbed her waist to keep her from falling backwards. Her heart leapt at his touch, but she kept her confidence on her lips.

"So what have we learned today?" she asked him.

The man sat up slowly like he was unsure of himself, hastily wiping away tears with the back of his clean hand. He stared cautiously at Wade and Frankie; his fear pleased her. It was easy enough to teach men a lesson once they were overpowered; it's what she loved about being a mercenary for abused women. Men acted like they were strong, but inside, they were so weak; she lived to exploit those weaknesses.

She could see the defiance behind the man's eyes. He wanted to cuss her out, but she knew he wouldn't—they almost never did. When he didn't reply, choosing instead to spit on the ground, Frankie warned him, "That's right, big guy. Keep your hands off of women. If you don't, I'll be back for more fun. That's a promise, not a threat."

"And change your pants," Wade said, pointing his gun at the man. "You smell like piss."

Without another word, Frankie and Wade slammed the motel door shut behind them and started back off towards the bar.

"You literally made that man pee his pants," Wade said in awe. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think I want to marry you."

"That escalated quickly," she said flatly, checking behind her to ensure the man didn't chase them.

"Our celebrity marriage name can be Wankie. What do you think?"

She grimaced. "Isn't that what you do every night?"

"Night? I'm more of a midday person," he joked.

"You're gross."

"I wasn't the one mutilating that man's testicles with my shoe," he countered.

For the first time since they met, Frankie smirked genuinely. "You've got me there."


	4. Three

**WOW, GUYS! Your response to this story has been awesome so far! Thank you to everyone who's favoriting and following (I LOVE getting those emails... how about a quick review too about what you like?!).**

 **Big thank you (and virtual hug!) to everyone who's reviewed: halicandropss, the-stuttering-kiwi, Cheese PuffXx, Onitsu Blackfeather, GoshujinsamaZ, Guest, Mia, ShikaKibaShinoGal, and CJ/Oddball (thank you for your concern! I'm okay, promise! :D).**

 **As a quick side note: I know I've been updating fairly frequently for the first few chaps, but that might change. I'm actually starting a new job on Monday the 14th (pi day... yay!) after four months of unemployment so my free time to write will be hacked away. That doesn't mean I won't write... I love this fic, and I'm SO HAPPY you guys do too!**

* * *

 **Three**

"No!" Weasel's voice burst from the other side of her apartment door. Frankie jumped at his pained sound and pressed her ear to the door, listening carefully for other sounds of distress. Her heart raced at the idea of her brother being threatened. "No, no, no! NOOO!"

Weasel's voice echoed into the hall, causing goose bumps to run up and down her arms. Frankie unearthed her knife and burst through the door with it drawn.

"Leave him alone!" she bellowed, her eyes frantically looking for the perpetrator. "Or this knife will be your new dildo!"

"Damn, Frankie," Wade whistled. When her eyes focused, she saw Weasel and Wade sitting on scuffed arm chairs in front of their small television, both holding X-Box controllers. The screen in front of them was paused, but showed Game Over in blood-streaked letters.

"Yeah, it's just a game," Weasel said. "Although I appreciate your enthusiasm and support."

The adrenaline drained from Frankie like a pot shattering on the floor. "Goddammit, guys. You could have warned me you had company."

"My bad," Wade said. "Just got back from Mexico and wanted a drink from my favorite, sexy bartender."

"And I'm not working, so…" her brother trailed off. When Frankie shot him a patronizing look, he relented, "You're right, I should have texted. I didn't think you'd get back from Jersey so soon."

"We have real Mexican tequila to make up for it." Wade picked up a huge bottle of gold tequila.

"He collects alcohol from countries like you do," Weasel said proudly.

"And by collects, he means brings home and drinks," Wade corrected.

Frankie groaned. "Don't tell him that. I don't want Wade thinking that we have anything in common."

"How rude!" Wade said in his best Stephanie Tanner a la _Full House_ impression.

Frankie smirked at him, and he nodded back. Their budding friendship—if you could call it that, Frankie still wasn't sure—had gotten to a comfortable interaction. Wade learned not to push the blonde merc, and she knew not to expect him to stop talking. Ever. They struck a decent balance. More than anything, Weasel was relived he didn't have to talk Frankie down from strangling Wade too often anymore.

The boys continued with their loud and violent video game—some sort of zombie shooter as far as she could tell—while Frankie walked over to the kitchen sink behind the living room. She pulled off the bloodied black leather gloves and tossed them in the sink on top of piles of dirty cereal bowls and cups. She ran her clean fingers through her tangled hair, then glanced down at her purple shirt and jacket, where she saw blood splatters.

"Ah, shit," she swore, hastily rubbing at the blood on her shirt. "How do you get blood out of clothes?"

"No idea," the boys said in unison.

"Ha! Jinx!" Wade shouted gleefully. "No talking until I say your name."

"Thanks, guys," she sighed. "I guess I'll just rub soap on it or something."

"Seems like something an old lady would know," Wade said. "Call your mom? Do you have a mom?"

"We were born out of pure spite," she said casually. In reality, her mom was dead. Drug overdose. Her dad was dead too. Murdered.

"Makes sense," Wade said. "Put on something not covered in blood and come join us! We'll pour you a shot or ten."

Frankie snickered. She disappeared into her small bedroom—an oversized closet with a bed, dresser, and window—to change. Her day's events were still playing in her mind on a loop, so she had to admit she was a little grateful for the alcoholic distraction. She found comfortable sweats and threw her dirty clothes into a laundry basket in the corner of the room. She'd clean up later. Maybe.

When she reemerged, she asked, "Who's winning?"

"Me," Wade said, leaning forward in his seat. "Was that even a question?"

"Fair," she said, plopping on the ragged old couch closest to her room. "How was Mexico?"

"Great. I got to empty a round into a guy who embezzled millions from his sweet old grandma," he said, still focusing on the screen in front of him. "Then I spent a few hours on a beach in Cancun and flew home."

"So jealous," she clicked her tongue. "I never get to go anywhere exotic."

"You have a really specific niche," Weasel said.

"HEY! No talking!" Wade snapped.

"Men beat women in Mexico," Frankie said. "And the Dominican… and Hawaii…"

"Next time I get a case over there, I'll take you," Wade said, mashing buttons to rapid fire at the zombies on the screen.

"Sweet," she said, sipping the tequila. Her throat warmed at the liquid. "Damn, this is good shit."

"Keep drinking," Wade encouraged, "Then you'll definitely wanna go to Mexico with me."

"The beach is all I need to persuade me."

"Beach sex too."

"Can you not hit on my sister in front of me?" Weasel groaned.

"No," Wade said. "Especially now that I'm envisioning beach sex."

"Sand would get everywhere though," Frankie countered. "Beach sex denied."

Wade opened his mouth to reply, but Weasel beat him to it, "How was Jersey?"

"Cold and stupid," she said. Her mind conjured up visions of her victim's wide, horrified eyes. She hesitated before admitting, "I killed him."

"WHAT?!" Wade and Weasel choired. Weasel paused the game while Wade dropped his controller.

She shrugged like it was nothing, but the sound of him gurgling blood through his throat still made her squirm. "He sexually abused a four-year-old. I tried to be civil, but he told me to fuck off and spat in my face… He kinda had it coming."

"What'd you do with the body?" Weasel asked nervously.

"Woman who called it in was a cop, said not to worry. I did a clean job… knife in his throat. Though considering his crime I should've made him suffer."

"Holy fuck me," Wade whistled lowly.

"That's still a no," Frankie teased.

"Are you okay?" Weasel asked, concern etched on the lines on his face.

Frankie shot him a genuine smile. "Yes. It's nothing this entire bottle of tequila can't fix."

Weasel shot her a look that clearly said "don't do that." Wade, on the other hand, said, "That's the spirit. Merc life!"

* * *

After a few straight shots of tequila and two glasses of tequila with Coke, Frankie was feeling fine.

"NO! You missed!" she slurred, pointing enthusiastically at the TV. "You are the worst shot ever!"

"I've had a lot of tequila!" Wade argued, button mashing.

"No excuse!" Frankie shouted. "What if some guy burst in here right now and threatened to hurt me?"

"I'd blow his brains out no problem!" Wade insisted.

"You…" she trailed off, unsure of where her sentence was going. Alcohol made her brain float and her words scarce. "You're okay."

Wade smiled at her, and her insides felt mushy. She grinned dumbly back and reclined against the couch, still sipping at her drink. She watched as virtual Wade and Weasel romped through the zombie apocalypse, shooting aimlessly at anything and everything that moved. That is until Weasel had his throat torn out by a lurking zombie.

"Ugh!" he shouted, throwing the controller on the ground. He stumbled towards his bedroom, still shouting, "I'm done! I'm done."

Wade picked up his controller and handed it to Frankie. "You wanna play?"

"Nah. I don't have the coordination," she drawled, placing the controller on the coffee table between the chairs. "Even when I'm sober. It's partially why I don't like guns."

Wade smirked and turned on the cable. He flipped through the channels before settling on _Archer_. The alcohol seemed to carry her into happiness's arms, and in that moment, she couldn't help but notice how thick Wade's biceps were in his tank top, or how sweet his smile was, or…

She needed to get a grip. This was Wade Wilson we were talking about, not _People's_ Sexiest Man Alive.

"So why'd you do it?" Wade asked, his words slurring a little.

"Do what?" Frankie countered, confused.

"Kill that guy," he said lowly. In the other room, they heard Weasel slamming his dresser shut. "I know you don't do that."

Frankie's mouth twisted with nerves. She wanted to tell him the truth, but she also wanted to bury it deep within her. Could Wade keep a secret of this magnitude? The alcohol told her yes, but her logical mind, still operating deep down, said no.

"I know I don't have your required friend points or whatever," he said jokingly. "But… I just… Are you okay?"

Frankie took a sip of her drink, relishing the taste of alcohol. Her drunken mind seemed to be playing a tug of war with her emotions: open up, close up, open up, close up…

But the alcohol dulled her senses. She needed to tell someone other than her brother. And hey, if he blabbed, she could always stab him in the throat with a knife.

"Alcohol accelerates the friend process," she said, placing her drink on the table. She met Wade's sweet stare, and asked seriously, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes," he said, covering her hand with his. She warmed at his touch, melting into his affection.

"I killed my dad," she confessed. "He molested me. I was 14 when I just snapped and… I had to go to the juvi mental bin. Got out when I was 20. Came here. Started working out. I just… don't like it when men abuse kids."

Wade's face softened. "Frankie, I'm… I'm so sorry."

She shook her head as if trying to shake the alcohol from her mind. "It's… okay. I mean, it's not, but… It made me who I am. Jack… Weasel was good enough to take me in and support me. I'm trying again. Trying to do good."

"You are," he said seriously, rubbing her hand. "More than I can say. 41 confirmed kills in the U.S. military. That's all I've got to my name."

"I don't think so," she said. She reached her arm up and gently touched his cheek. He rested against her touch.

"You're the only one," he said, dropping his touch.

Frankie watched as he sunk into his seat, looking lonely. Part of her was certain her sudden surge of emotions was because of the liquor, but another part felt a little bad for him. Weasel had mentioned that Wade didn't seem to have many close friends, nor had he dated seriously in a while. Frankie didn't think he was a bad guy—she just wasn't in a spot to be with anyone. Plus, she had a hard enough time trusting friends… she imagined she'd be a very paranoid girlfriend.

But kindness didn't mean commitment, nor did it necessarily mean she was leading him on. She was always clear about her intentions. And since their heat was so shitty and it was a cold night…

"I'm gonna go to bed," she said softly, touching his leg to get his attention. "Do you wanna cuddle? Just as friends."

He smirked at her need to clarify. "Yeah, I'll be your space heater. Fucking cold out. Makes me miss Mexico."

"Better than Jersey, for sure."

And even though she didn't predict it, Wade ended up spooning her that night, his legs tangled in hers, his body heat keeping her warm and comfortable. He slept soundly, and she nestled against him, relishing his touch… even it was just as friends.

But more than anything, even though she didn't want to admit it, Frankie noticed that in his arms, she felt safer than ever.


	5. Four

**Hi! I'm back. My first week of work went really well, but I've been itching to update this story. I hope you love it!**

 **Muchas gracias to everyone who reviewed: BraziaRios, GoshujinsamaZ, CJ/Oddball, Emmachibi, dacindonna, the-stuttering-kiwi, ShikaKibaShinoGal, and Onitsu Blackfeather. And lots of love to everyone favoriting and following-why not leave a review too? :D**

 **MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING IN THIS CHAPTER. Do not read if you are triggered by rape or sexual assault/abuse.**

* * *

 **Four**

"And that's it!" Frankie yelled, lowering the volume on the booming stereo. All around her kickboxing room, she watched as her students dropped like flies to the floor, their chests heaving up and down heavily. "See you next week!"

Slowly, but steadily, the students stood. Some chose to sit and stretch next to their bags, while others grabbed their water bottles and darted for the entrance. Frankie loved knowing she gave them a tough workout. She waved goodbye to some familiar faces while new ones watched her with terror; she knew they'd be back. They almost always came back.

"Hey!" Wade's familiar voice rose above the stereo. He gestured to the space around them and said, "So this is your dojo, huh?"

"The dojo's out there," she jammed her thumb behind her, pointing to the space where kids and teens were practicing karate. "This is my kickboxing ring."

Wade nodded with approval, looking impressed. "Ass kicking central."

"Something like that," she said, watching her new class trickle in. "So did you come here for a particular reason, or…?"

"Oh, yeah!" He perked up, then pulled two tickets from his pocket. "Our flight leaves at 2."

She raised her eyebrow. "Um… excuse me?"

"You said you wanted to go to exotic places," Wade said simply, pocketing the tickets. "I've got a job in Miami and I think you should come. Trying to break up a prostitution ring, save innocent women… it's right up your alley. Plus I'm technically not supposed to kill the guy."

"Technically?"

"Not supposed to kill the guy," he amended, and she smirked. "So what do you say?"

"I have one more class," she said, nodding to the students stretching around the bags. "But yeah, I'm in. Is Weasel going?"

"Nah, babe," he pinched her arm playfully. "This is a date."

* * *

The word date echoed in her head during the class. She tried desperately to bury her secret excitement, and the way her heart skipped at the thought of them alone, but the smile rose up her throat onto her lips.

 _I do not have feelings for Wade Wilson,_ she repeated in a manta in her head. _I do not have feelings for Wade Wilson. I do not have feelings for Wade Wilson. I do not…_

Meanwhile, Wade decided to take a spot at an open bag; Frankie warned that she wasn't an easy instructor, and he assured her that he could keep up. He wasn't lying. She liked watching him pant and struggle through her routines (as well as her other students). She also had to admit that her heart jumped with pride every time she heard his forceful shin kicks (and enjoyed watching as younger female students in the room cowered in his power and presence). By the end of the class, though, he was like everyone else: he was doubled over, gasping for air.

"Holy shit," he breathed heavily, reaching onto the bag for support. "I haven't had a workout like that since the military."

"Good," she smiled, and he rolled his eyes. "There are showers by the bathrooms. You'll need it before our flight."

"Can you help me?" he asked weakly. "I don't think I can walk. Or move my arms. Jesus Christ, lady."

Frankie offered Wade her hand, and he accepted. She pulled tightly and hoisted him off his butt, his sweat lingering on her hand.

"You'll manage, champ," she said, slapping his back.

"I can help if you want," came a coy voice from behind Wade. A curvy, dark-skinned woman raised her eyebrows at Wade and then walked out of the room.

Frankie bust out laughing. "You gonna go meet her?"

Wade shook his head. "On second thought, I'll shower at your place. Let's go."

* * *

"You're going WHERE with Wade?" Weasel's panicked voice asked.

"Miami," Frankie yelled from her bedroom. She moved quickly, stuffing clothes in her old backpack, careful not to trip over any of the litter on her floor. She had hoped that she would be able to avoid her brother, but luck was not in her favor lately.

"Christ." She heard him place a nearly empty beer bottle on their coffee table. "Sleep in different beds."

"That ship's sailed," she muttered, thinking of their recent overnight cuddle session.

"What?"

"Nothing!" she said in a sing-song voice.

Frankie zipped her bag closed and strolled into the living room. Weasel watched her skeptically, but she ignored him in favor of the silence coming from the bathroom.

"Wade will be ready soon," she said matter-of-factly. "Will you drive us to the airport?"

Weasel sighed dramatically. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Great!" Wade burst out of the bathroom fully dressed.

"Did you even shower?" Weasel teased.

"Yes." He clapped his hands together, then pointed at Frankie's bag. "What'd you pack?"

She shrugged. "Clothes that don't show blood?"

"Great. Pack something sexy too." Frankie snickered as Weasel's eyes almost popped out of his head. "You're going to be my whore."

* * *

Although Wade had mentioned it in the least tactful way, Frankie was going to pose as pimp Wade's prostitute. Their plan, as he explained on the ride to the airport, was to infiltrate the strip club where the trafficking ringleader hid out. Wade would introduce Frankie as a new girl for him to use however he pleased, and she'd get into the back room to help the other girls. Meanwhile, Wade would partner with the Miami mercs who called for help to take down The Big Cheese.

"I hope your knife hides in your bra," he teased her on the airplane.

Frankie smirked. "Who needs a knife when I can punch?"

Wade barked a laugh. "That's my girl," he said, clapping his hand on her thigh. Her throat tightened at his touch, but she told herself to ignore him.

The plane landed around 5 in the evening, which left them a few hours for typical tourist fare: eating, drinking, and exploring with their gear on their backs. Frankie thought it was funny that, to anyone else around them, she and Wade looked like tourists with taking gratuitous cell phone photos and pointing excitedly at landmarks they thought were interesting. But packed in their bags was enough weaponry to take down the entire square they were exploring.

Frankie was worried that she might get tired of Wade—after all, their time together was limited in small doses or supervised by her brother. But he was a surprisingly fun partner, always up to visiting whatever landmarks or stores Frankie thought might be interesting. Sure, he talked a lot, but it was much more fun to listen when he was cracking jokes about what was happening around them. Frankie learned that they actually had quite a lot in common beyond their morbid profession and alcohol collections. They'd even taken their share in selfies, some of which she sent to Weasel to prove they weren't dead.

Once their feet were tired, they headed to the hotel to shower ("This hotel is eco-friendly… maybe we should shower together, save water," Wade said casually), nap quickly (to Weasel's relief, they had two beds), and change (Frankie knew she wouldn't forget the way Wade's eyes widened at the sight of her in lingerie, or the way he cleared his throat and stammered when asking if she was ready to go). Before she knew it, it was time to head out.

"Have you ever pole danced before?" Wade asked once they'd gotten into a taxi.

Frankie tugged her coat—concealing a lace, black push-up bra and panties—and sighed. "You would ask that."

"It's a legitimate question," he snapped. Frankie glanced up to see the taxi driver momentarily watching them in the rearview mirror before averting his eyes back to the road. "Considering the task ahead."

"I have killer thighs—"

"Literally," Wade joked.

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be okay. Worse comes to worse I shimmy or something… maybe hump the pole…"

The cab driver coughed loudly as if to remind them they had company. Wade ignored this signal.

"Take off your bra?" he suggested.

"I do have really spectacular breasts," she teased.

"We'll save them as a last resort then."

Frankie's instinct in this situation—the overt sexualization of her body—was to be defensive and tell him to piss off. But Wade's friendship had softened her a little, so she smirked. "Deal."

The cab driver pulled in front of the strip club. Wade touched her hand, and her throat tightened.

"You remember what to do? You'll be okay?"

"Of course," she said, hoping that the darkness in the cab hid her red cheeks. "I'm a professional after all."

"That's my girl," he pinched her cheek.

Frankie took a deep breath as Wade paid the driver; she wasn't totally sure why, but she felt a little nervous about this task. She took Wade's arm, his warmth comforting her, and together they walked confidently into the loud club. Bass thumped through the speakers on the wall, and the low lights in the room only served to illuminate the many ladies on stage. Occasionally, a man would holler, and Frankie cringed.

"This way," Wade said, nodding towards the back.

Frankie followed him into the bowels of the club with concrete walls and dim lighting. Occasionally, another dancer passed them, glaring at Frankie. They found a nondescript door marked Manager and Wade knocked.

"I've got the girl," he said lowly.

A moment later, a round man with tan skin and a white suit and fedora answered the door. To Frankie's surprise, he beamed.

"Ah, Mr. Carmichael! Of course, of course, come in… we've been expecting you. Well, expecting the blonde." He boomed a laugh. Wade closed the door behind them, and his voice filled the room. "We've had many requests for a natural blonde. Women around here are beautiful, of course, but a blonde…" he gestured to Frankie. "A treat! Let me see what you're wearing, sweetheart."

Her skin crawled at his pet name, but she pulled off her coat nonetheless. The round man grinned widely, nodding to himself.

"Yes, this will do… we'll have to test her of course before she can go home with some of our, ah, more discerning customers."

"I can vouch for her," Wade said gruffly. "Best fuck of my life. And I've had a lotta girls, Mr. Williams, you know that."

Frankie tried her best to force a smile, but worried she came off looking like someone just kicked her in the gut.

"Ah, but New York girls are a different breed from Miami!" Mr. Williams checked his black notebook, where notes were scribbled. "If you insist, Clancy is coming back in an hour. We could have her dance, then take him to a back room… you'll get most of the profits, of course. I'm a fair man, Mr. Carmichael."

Frankie's stomach burned. She couldn't believe some girls opted for this kind of life. She kept needing to remind herself that was why she was here—to rescue trafficked girls, not to forcibly fuck some guy with a name from 1920.

"Sounds good to me." Wade turned to Frankie. "Why don't you go to the back, babe? Make some friends. I'll see you later."

Frankie nodded. As she turned to leave the room, her fellow merc slapped her hard on the ass.

* * *

Although she came with the best of intentions, the other dancers wanted absolutely nothing to do with Frankie. Another Miami merc who introduced herself as Em told her that she'd been having the same problems—and she'd infiltrated the club weeks ago.

"They don't trust easily," she explained quietly as girls bustled around them.

"I don't blame them," Frankie muttered, and Em nodded in agreement.

Still, Frankie did her due diligence. Mr. Williams insisted that she dance on stage once or twice, much to the chagrin of the other girls. When asked what her stage name was, Frankie told him Mercy. For some reason, it was the first name that came to mind.

And it was perfect for the announcer, who said, "She'll make you beg for it… Welcome, Mercy!"

As the time neared for her to meet her client, Frankie realized she hadn't made much traction, even with Em's help, and she hadn't seen Wade in a while. Em suggested that she find Wade fast before she got trapped with the man.

But unfortunately for her, Clancy arrived early. Mr. Williams came in the back to collect her, his once wide smile replaced with a scowl. He snapped his fingers to get her attention, then rushed her when she didn't move.

"Back room now, bitch," Mr. Williams growled. He hastily grabbed Frankie by the arm and pulled her down the hallway. Panic pounded in her chest as she tried desperately to loosen his grip.

To her mild relief, Wade walked behind them, monitoring the situation. When her pleading eyes met his, she mouthed, "Help me." He only nodded at her. What did that mean?!

The round man shoved Frankie into a dark private room. She found a thin, tan-skinned man sitting on a bed, wringing his hands together. When he saw Frankie, his eyes lit up.

Deep down, Frankie knew that this was just a hazard of the job. But another part of her mind kept screaming, "This will be rape! I don't want to do this! Stop!" She swallowed a hard ball of anxiety in her throat, slowly backing against the door as Clancy slowly approached you.

"Don't look so scared, sweetie," he purred, running his hand along her jaw.

Her breathing quickened, and suddenly, she couldn't think. She tightened her muscles as his fingers danced across her stomach and dipped between her legs.

"No," she whimpered, feeling tears threaten her eyes. She wasn't even sure why she was breaking so easily. She needed to do this for the job, but the anxiety rose in her throat and onto her tongue.

"Tell me you want me," he hissed in her ear. His rough fingers dipped into her panties and found her most private skin. Clancy bit her neck, and she cried out loudly in terror.

"NO!" she shook like a leaf, feeling very much like a child again. In her mind's eye, she saw her dad pinning her against her bed, unzipping his pants. "No, please don't, you can keep your money, I don't want to—"

"Come here, bitch," Clancy threw her like a rag doll onto the bed. "I know you want it."

Frankie crawled pathetically up the bed as if she would disappear if she reached the wall. She closed her eyes and cried, feeling the bed shake as he approached her, crawling on his hands and knees.

Just then, the door burst open. Wade stormed in with his gun pointed. He didn't even hesitate before shooting Clancy. His now limp body fell with a thud onto the mattress in front of Frankie, a pool of blood forming beneath him.

Wade ran over to her and touched her face, wiping away her tears. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—" her nervous throat couldn't find words. "But you—"

"Change of plans," he said in a hushed voice, helping her off the bed. "Come on, we need to go—"

Frankie didn't think—she just obeyed. They hadn't even crossed the room when Mr. Williams entered and slammed the door behind him, gun pointed at Wade and Frankie.

"I don't think so," he said ominously, cocking the pistol. "I know who you are, Wade Wilson. But she's mine now."

"If you know who I am," Wade said, pointing his gun at the man, "Then you know you need to let us go."

"You can go; the girl stays," he insisted.

"I'm not leaving this room without her."

"Fine," Williams said simply, then fired his gun.

The sound of the shot rung in Frankie's ears. She closed her eyes and felt something hot and burning in her stomach, followed by another shot and a deafening thud.

She focused only on breathing until she heard Wade say her name, "Frankie!"

She opened her eyes. The walls around her swayed and shook. By the door, she saw Williams crumpled on the ground, blood splattered on the wall behind him. Dead.

When she looked down at her hands, she saw her fingers and gut covered in blood. She looked in horror to Wade.

"Wade," she said weakly, reaching for him.

And then everything went black.


	6. Five

**Happy Spring everyone (well, in the U.S. at least)! I'm so excited for warm weather again. Especially now that I'm walking a lot more outside to my new job! It makes going to work easier when I don't want to sit in my car in the parking garage.**

 **Anyway...**

 **Danke schoen to everyone who reviewed: BraziaRios, KOTG, the-stuttering-kiwi, CJ/Oddball, ShikaKibaShinoGirl, and Cheese PuffXx. Keep the reviews coming! I love reading them!**

* * *

 **Five**

Frankie hadn't fallen asleep this easily since before the accident. She finally felt peaceful as she drifted away on the couch, the hum of the television in front of her. She took a deep breath, trying to force out the stress and frustration of the last six weeks as sleep, when Wade spoke up.

"Did you take your pill?"

She groaned and craned her neck towards him. Frankie saw him exactly as he had been all day—reclined on the couch with a mixed drink in his hand.

Normally, before the accident, Frankie would have snapped. But Wade had done so much for her lately that she couldn't bring herself to tear him a new asshole for waking her up especially when he KNEW how much trouble she'd been having trying to sleep.

"I can't remember," she said, rubbing her eyes.

And it was true—she hadn't gotten out of bed or off the couch in six weeks, so her days blurred together. Being home was definitely an improvement on being stuck in the hospital, but she loathed not working or exercising. Her doctor had wisely warned her against "strenuous activity", which according to her brother, including ass kicking in the both merc work and kickboxing classes.

Frankie knew that she should be grateful to even be alive. After all, the bullet pierced her abdomen and liver. Had Wade not acted quickly ("And heroically," he usually quipped), she would have died in that dank strip club in Miami.

But of course, you can't just wake up from a medially induced coma and expect everything to be sunshine and roses. For the first few days, before she woke up, Weasel bounced between pure panic and anger. Her brother shouted at Wade so loudly for being, and she quotes, an irresponsible fucking shitwad that security removed both of them from her room and monitored subsequent visits (during which Weasel was forced to mutter his frustration with his best friend). Frankie felt like a mediator most of those first days after she woke—she spent most of her time talking Weasel off of his murderous rage and Wade down from the cliff of guilt he kept dangling himself over.

"It's my fault," Wade said sadly.

"No shit," Weasel muttered.

"It's not," she insisted, and her brother rolled his eyes. "You didn't fire that gun."

"I shouldn't have let you go in that room in the first place," he countered."

"But I did," Frankie said. "And I made it. So stop acting like a little bitch."

Wade barked an appreciative laugh in that moment, but she could see that he still carried the hurt of her accident in his eyes. Guilt was partially why he ended up moving into their apartment to help take care of her. She regularly insisted that he didn't need to, but he usually made some lame excuse about how he wasn't doing anything else (and how it pleased him to finally see her not be amazing at something). When Wade watched her or teased her like that, she could see that he wasn't even putting an effort into hiding how he felt anymore.

Not that Frankie was trying too hard either. Her feelings for Wade, once a small flame in her heart, were stoked into a larger, raging fire that could only be dampened by her incessant frustration with her situation. Wade, though, had a way of coaxing her back off the ledge. During nights when the pain in her body was so bad she couldn't sleep, she'd join the insomniac merc in the living room for late night TV and movie marathons. They didn't speak much during these moments; more than anything, Frankie liked watching Wade's tired body succumb to sleep—his normally focused and passionate eyes slide into unconsciousness, his strong arms relax, his breath slow as it passes through his lips…

"You can double up," Wade said, stirring her from her thoughts. "Just remember to take one tomorrow night."

"Okay," Frankie said. Wade knew her medication schedule better than she did sometimes. Although, to be fair, her memory wasn't helped by the painkillers.

Frankie carefully threw her legs over the end of the couch. She slowly stood, placing most of the pressure on her hands that gripped the coffee table for balance in the hopes of not aggravating her injury. When she bent up, she caught Wade watching her. Their eyes met, and he turned away like he hadn't been shamelessly staring at her.

Unfortunately, Frankie's balance and strength weren't what they used to be. She spent half a second too long thinking about how handsome Wade looked in the glow of the TV and not enough seconds thinking about moving that she toppled over onto the wood floor beneath her.

"Fuck!" she swore, instinctively clutching her stomach. Her mind quickly panicked that her scar had opened, but upon touch, she found that it wasn't. A sharp pain ran up her side where her liver is and she groaned.

"Walk much?" Wade teased. He effortlessly scooped her up in his arms, walked her to her room, and gently placed her on her bed.

"No," she said honestly, still grimacing in pain. "I don't, now that you mention it."

"You should try it. Legs are great." He turned on a lamp on her night table and picked up a few marked prescription bottles. "For running, walking… throwing over your head when we're fucking."

She snorted. "Easy, tiger."

"Actually, I think I'm more of a koala in bed." He uncapped a bottle and picked out a pill. "Cuddly, soft, hungry…"

"For the pussy?" she swallowed the pill with a gulp of water from a glass he handed her.

"Or the cock. I'm an equal opportunist."

Frankie collapsed back against her pillow. The sudden jolt in movement aggravated her stomach, though, so she curled up into the fetal position and focused on breathing slowly.

"More fish in the pond," she managed to say.

Wade brushed the strands of hair that had fallen in her face. "A higher chance of spreading my DNA, too."

Frankie tried to think of another response, but the clever part of her brain had shut down in favor of chanting this oddly soothing mantra: _Oh my god I think I'm dying. This is the end. Kill me now._

She focused on breathing slowly (as if that might help the pain) as Wade turned out the lamp and headed to the door. She heard his hand grasp the doorknob and without thinking, she used the last bit of vocal strength to beg him.

"Wait," she said in a strained voice. Frankie saw his figure pause in the illuminated doorway; she felt a little bad for asking, but she didn't want to be alone… not now. "Can you stay with me?"

"Your brother will be home soon," Wade said softly. "I'd rather not be sodomized with the jagged end of a beer bottle."

"I'm an adult," she insisted, though the pain made her sound angry. "He'll deal with it."

The merc considered this. After a beat, he briefly disappeared into the living room. Frankie grimaced—of course he would choose to please Weasel after everything that had happened. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the pain. She kept telling herself only 20 more minutes until the pill would kick in… only 19 minutes…

The sound of his voice made her jump. "Why are you so tense? Turning coal into a diamond?"

She opened her eyes to see Wade standing at her bedside. "It helps."

"I can't imagine it does," he said coolly. When she didn't reply, he lay down next to her and scooped her into his arms so she rested her head against his heart. "See? If you relax, it'll hurt less."

"I'll shoot you in the liver and you can see how it feels."

He snorted. "I appreciate the offer, but I'll pass."

* * *

Some passage of time later—Frankie lost count with Wade talking incessantly in a hushed voice next to her—the pill finally kicked in. Her stomach had been aching in a constant rhythm of pain, and just like that, it seemed to evaporate into nothingness. Her body instantly relaxed against Wade, who was three minutes strong in a rant about why _A Goofy Movie_ is the most underrated Disney film of all time.

"Holy shit," he whistled. "Did you just cum?"

She smacked him on the chest, and he laughed. "Don't be rude."

"I can't help it. Rude, crude… It's the ABCs of me."

Frankie propped herself up on her forearm so she could look at Wade, still reclined on his back.

"Thank you," she said genuinely, "for staying with me. And taking care of me. And being my slave. You really don't have to."

He shrugged like it was nothing. "I want to."

"Why though?" she probed. She wasn't sure if it was the medicine giving her a sudden surge of flirty confidence, but she needed to know.

Wade smirked. "There's something very middle school about this exchange. Next you're going to ask me if I like-like you."

"Well…" Frankie paused, considering the question that was on her tongue. Did she dare ask it? If he said yes, it would change everything—maybe not for the better. But if she didn't, they would continue this awkward dance of will they, won't they. "Do you?"

Wade's confident smile slid off his lips. He seemed to be watching her for some sort of confirmation of how she felt, but she willed her face to stay stony.

"Did you stop breathing?" he asked softly, touching her cheek.

Just then, she exhaled deeply. The sudden sensation of air filling her lungs burned a little.

"I guess I did," she said, forcing a grin.

Frankie expected Wade to have another snarky quip on his tongue. But instead, when she blinked, he gently wrapped his fingers around the back of her head and pressed their lips together. Despite being such an intimidating figure, his lips were gentle, begging her to melt against him. She reciprocated with her tongue, carefully moving her sore body on top of his. Frankie found him beneath her sweatpants, and she ground her hips against him, causing him to moan.

"Are you okay?" he asked when they parted, breathing heavily. "This is very unlike you, chaste Frankie."

"Better now," she said coyly.

When he opened his mouth to reply, she shut him up by kissing him.

* * *

Frankie awoke to a sliver of sunlight in her eye. She held her hand in front of the beam, blocking its path, and swore.

"I'll close the blinds," Wade muttered groggily. "But first, I need water."

"Kitchen," she said simply, rolling onto her back.

Wade affectionately squeezed her arm, then swung his legs over the side of her bed and stretched. Frankie watched with a secret smile at his naked back; she thought she might be overwhelmed at the idea that she and Wade were now a Thing, but instead, she felt comfortable—like they had been together for months instead of hours.

Frankie had to disagree with his self-assessment of being a koala in bed—he was passionate but gentle, especially over her scar, and she reciprocated to the best of her physical ability. When they had both finished, still kissing each other hungrily, Wade only managed to say one thing.

"Your brother is going to kill me."

She smiled, running her fingertips over his chest. "Maybe. But it was worth it."

Wade yawned loudly, drawing her back to the present moment. When he turned, exposing himself to her, and saw her crooked smile, he winked.

Then, without donning any clothing, he casually strolled out of the bedroom, leaving the door behind him wide open. Frankie sat up, about to yell for him to bring her a cup, when she heard her brother's shrilly shriek.

"WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?"

Frankie tore out of bed, throwing on underwear and a sweatshirt she found on the floor, moving as quickly as she could into the living room (ever conscious of her wound). There she saw Weasel standing over the sink with wide eyes and a scowl.

"Um…" Wade clicked his tongue. "Good morning, starshine."

"You couldn't put on pants before coming out here?" Weasel accused.

"I didn't think you'd be up," he replied bashfully. "It's only, what? Eight? Nine?"

"Eleven," Weasel corrected. When his eyes fell on his sister, he groaned. "I was thinking sausage for breakfast, but this is too much, Wade."

Wade laughed, and Frankie shifted on her feet uncomfortably next to him.

"When I was doing your sister, I was thinking about you," Wade winked.

Weasel's face scrunched with discomfort. "Put some fucking pants on, already!"

"Okay, but only because you asked nicely."

Weasel rolled his eyes. When Wade had disappeared back into her bedroom, she smiled awkwardly at him.

"What?" he snapped.

"I thought you'd have more words for him," she gestured to her half-clothed body. "Y'know… about this."

"Oh, don't worry, I will," he said. They held each other's stare for a moment—Frankie silently asking for understanding, Weasel coming to terms with the change in their relationship. "Seeing his dick kind of threw me off."

"Do you ever shut up about my penis?" Wade said, reappearing in the living room with sweatpants and a t-shirt. Weasel shot him a patronizing look that he ignored. "How about waffles? I'm feeling syrup. For breakfast. Or your naked body."

"Oh my god," Weasel barked, walking towards his bedroom. "I'll be in the shower. Drowning myself."

"Great!" Wade clapped his hands together. "More waffles for us!"


	7. Six

**Yes, yes, it's been a while! My job has finally started kicking my butt and I hit a helluva writer's block. I'm happy to say I think I've scaled that wall for now. Hopefully I keep up the momentum.**

 **Big thanks to the following for reviewing: ndfootball09, ShibaKibaShinoGal, the-stuttering-kiwi, GoshujinsamaZ, CJ/Oddball, and KOTG.**

 **And lots of love to those who favorited and followed! (And of course, to everyone for their patience.)**

* * *

 **Six**

"You know, when you said you were going to Spain, I didn't think I'd be working," Weasel said bitterly, pouring Frankie her second margarita of the night.

"We all have to play our parts," she teased, graciously accepting the drink. "Wade's the brains, I'm the brawn, and you're…"

"The bitch," her brother sighed.

"I wouldn't say that," Wade's voice rang through their earpieces. Frankie smirked at the sound of her boyfriend's voice while Weasel instinctively rolled his eyes—something he'd perfected in the last seven months whenever Wade spoke. "You're more like… the beauty."

"I thought that was my sister," Weasel said, looking Frankie in the face so guests around them wouldn't be suspicious.

"You're still my favorite," Wade teased. Weasel shook his head and started to walk towards another woman at the bar who had flagged him down. "Although, if you don't mind my saying, you look absolutely ravishing tonight, Francesca."

She took a sip of her margarita, her cheeks burning. "I told you not to call me that," she muttered into her glass.

"You should wear gowns more often," he blathered in her ear. Frankie shifted awkwardly in her seat, suddenly very conscious of the way the navy gown clung to her curves. "Perhaps we can make it a thing in the bedroom."

"I'm still here, y'know," Weasel snapped.

"Don't be jealous, Jack. You know you're my first and truest love."

"The feeling's not mutual."

"Is it because I am slightly less handsome than I was before?" he rambled. Frankie peeked over her shoulder and saw the thinner, more tired looking Wade holding a tray of appetizers while well-dressed guests plucked at his platter.

Weasel didn't reply, as he was helping a guest with their drink order.

"We've lost him, Frank," Wade said dramatically. "It's just you and me now."

She rolled her eyes. "Speaking of, have you seen our target?"

"Not yet."

Weasel interrupted, "Actually, while you were trying to flirt with me, I served him some tequila."

"Straight up? Dick doesn't mess around," Wade chimed in. "Although I guess you need to get drunk quickly with the number of prostitutes he's murdering."

"Make sure he sees me," Frankie said.

On the other side of the bar, Weasel called after their target, a tall, husky man named Raul. Frankie focused on her drink, the alcohol warming her insides, trying not to psych herself out of the task at hand. Even though it had been eight months since the accident, she had gotten back into merc life very slowly. She opted to spend more time at the gym while her body continued to recover. Then she accompanied Wade on his hits. When she took her own clients again, though, she noticed her knife hand shake with anxiety. But when she was with her boyfriend, she had a steady grip.

That was how Frankie became Wade's partner. Their alias was Wade and Francesca Wilson, newly married couple traveling on their honeymoon. When they acted giggly and in love, their targets always lowered their defenses, which made it much easier to lure them into their clutches. When they chased after misogynistic men, Frankie usually played a lonely barfly who just got stood up by her date. Worked every damn time.

Of course, the downside of working solely in the city was that Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were starting to get recognized—especially by reputation. More than once before they died, their target's eyes would widen with recognition at who they were dealing with. This problem made travel essential—Frankie and Wade had been to Brazil, Vancouver, Ireland, Morocco, Hong Kong… All over, really.

Which is why Weasel started loudly complaining that he was never invited on their frequent vacations, and how Frankie invited him to Spain. But there was a catch, of course. Work first, play later.

"He's coming for you," Weasel said in a low voice.

Frankie instinctively straightened her posture and checked her bust. If he was like any other man, the rest of the night would be a breeze.

"Fuck him up!" Wade said in her ear. "But maybe not literally."

* * *

Their target introduced himself as Raul, a wealthy man who made his millions trafficking women in and out of Barcelona (he didn't admit this, of course, but Frankie's mind stated it loudly when he mentioned that he was an entrepreneur). Raul insisted he was an old fashioned man—he bought Frankie drinks, danced with her, and asked her many questions about her life back in America. She told him some truths—that she worked at the gym as a personal trainer and kickboxing instructor, lived in New York City with her brother, spent a lot of time at the bar… Really, she wanted to keep talking so he kept drinking… so he would say the magic words.

"Let's go upstairs."

Frankie flashed Raul a coy grin. He gently took her hand and led her out of the ballroom; although she couldn't see him, she knew Wade would be close behind.

Everything about the gala they had crashed and its venue was pristine—gorgeous old columns and upscale lights and furniture. Even the elevator was freshly polished and clean—though Frankie didn't have much time to inspect it as Raul hastily pressed his lips against hers. She returned the gesture with fervor, hoping to keep his interest, but gagged when he forced his tongue into her mouth. Even though it was just a hazard of the job, she would never get used to kissing a man other than Wade.

When the elevator door opened, Raul hurried her inside his room: the penthouse. The views of Barcelona at night were breathtaking—even though she knew better, Frankie paused to drink in the view. Raul, though, had another view in his mind. He tossed her onto the bed and pressed his body against hers. Frankie relaxed against his weight, luring him into a false sense of security for a few minutes, before she acted.

She grabbed his arms and flipped him onto his back as if she was taking control sexually. When Raul grinned, excited, she quickly drew her knife from its home on her thigh and pressed it against his neck so quickly he barely noticed what was happening before he felt the cool metal against his neck.

"My turn," she hissed.

Raul flung her off of his body, and Frankie rolled off the bed and onto the floor. She stood, though her back ached from the impact, and wielded her knife.

"I knew it," he said threateningly. "I know who you are."

Frankie didn't give him the chance to taunt her. She launched a hard shin kick into his gut, knocking the wind out of him, and then punched his face until he fell to the ground with a thud. His glassy eyes watched her carefully, as if calculating her next move, but he would never be fast enough for her. When he reached for her leg, she jumped and kicked him in the head. When he tried to get up, she landed a fist in his groin.

Only when they were both panting—and Raul's face was smattered in blood—did Frankie press the knife to his neck, her fingernails digging into his skin.

"Any last words?" she tempted. Normally, she didn't offer, but she was stalling—Wade was supposed to have met her here by now.

"You don't kill, Francesca Wilson," he said, his words garbled by the blood in his mouth.

As if on cue, Wade slid into the door, wielding a handgun and looking devilishly handsome in his tuxedo.

"She may not," he said, casually cocking the gun. "But I do."

There was a beat while Raul took in the turn of events. Frankie stared at Wade patronizingly. "Did you plan that?"

He grinned sheepishly. "I was waiting for a good in. What do you think?"

"Totally cheesy," she pressed the knife against Raul's neck. "But worth it. It was pretty cool."

"See, that's what I thought too. I could have come in earlier but it sounded like you had everything under control and—STAY DOWN!" he pointed the gun at Raul, who struggled beneath Frankie's grasp. The man watched the merc carefully, but obliged. Wade continued as if nothing happened, "I didn't want to ruin your moment."

"You're so thoughtful," she said jokingly.

"You know me, babe." Wade shooed her aside. He stood above Raul, gun placed at his temple. "Now, where were you? Last words?"

"Wade Wilson," Raul growled. "My people will know about this, and they'll find you."

Wade didn't even blink. He pulled the trigger, exploding Raul's head.

"They say that a lot," he said directly to the corpse, now bleeding freely onto the comforter and floor. "But they never do."

* * *

After a shower and clothing change, Frankie and Wade ended up on the beach with margaritas and moonlight as their only company. They were lounging on the resort's outdoor beds—used for sunbathing during the day—happily recapping their successful evening.

"We did good, kid," he sighed happily. "We make a great team."

"Only because I do all the hard work," she teased.

"Hey, even if it's, like, 2% of the work, I still help!"

She smirked at him, and he kissed her forehead. Frankie reclined against her boyfriend and sighed peacefully. It was hard to imagine that a year ago she was still struggling, even though it had been a few years since she had gotten out of the psych ward. She would never admit it then, she was lonely, even if Weasel was taking care of her. With Wade, her world felt different, bigger, brighter… She felt a little stupid for falling in love, but she couldn't help it. Wade wasn't lying—they made a great team.

"This might be my favorite place so far," she said, gesturing to the clear sky above them.

"My personal favorite is definitely the swampy air in Thailand that made us sweat through our clothes like a locker room sweat towel."

Frankie scrunched her nose at the memory. "Ugh, and then the shower didn't work."

"Or how about all that snow in northern California?"

"Definitely didn't expect that. I only packed shorts," she laughed, thinking of the two of them shivering while they tracked down their target.

"Fucking nature always messing with us."

"Yeah, fuck nature!"

Wade barked a laugh that echoed into the night. She closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat. Frankie knew better than for her boyfriend to stay silent for long—he always had something on his mind—but sometimes, rarely, he was quiet. She relaxed against him, nuzzling into him. He responded by affectionately squeezing her arm.

She was starting to drift to sleep when she heard him swear, "Fuck."

"What?" she asked, panicked. She sat up and quickly scanned the area for Raul's possible payback, but no one was around.

"I gave it to your brother," he muttered to himself. "Shit, Wade. I had this planned!"

"What are you talking about?" she asked nervously.

Wade's eyes widened with recognition. "But… I do have this." He pulled a half-eaten Ring Pop from his cargo shorts.

Frankie laughed. "What? You know I don't eat that shit."

"Both great for eating and wearing," he said. Then, Wade kneeled in the sand before her on one knee and offered her the candy. "Frankie, I…"

"What are you doing?" her heart beat quickened. Her brain, normally quick with thoughts, seemed to fizzle into nothingness.

"What does it look like?" Wade said patronizingly. He stuck the ring in his mouth. "Enjoying a candy treat and cooling my legs in the sand." Frankie didn't breathe; her boyfriend noticed. "Oh, and asking if you'll marry me."

Frankie's heart pounded in her chest. She didn't know what to say. Yes, she loved him, and he clearly loved her, but marriage? In their line of work? What if something happened to them? Should they commit like this? But then again, they were safe and looked out for each and…

Oh, fuck it! Why was this a question? She loved Wade Wilson! Her answer was obvious.

"Don't leave me hanging," he joked, though his voice had an edge of fear.

Frankie nodded, her eyes burning with tears. "Yes, you asshole!" He beamed and placed the candy ring on her finger. "Yes, I'll marry you!"

* * *

Frankie and Wade immediately celebrated their engagement by downing several shots and then running back to their hotel room. There, Wade found the real ring, silver and encrusted with rubies, and Frankie found the bed, where she quickly stripped him of his clothing.

Hours later, well into the middle of the night in Spain, Wade had fallen asleep next to her. Frankie, though, was lit with excitement. She kept waiting to hear her brother return to his room so she could squeal girlishly at him, but he must have found a place to stay elsewhere. She tried to relax and close her eyes, but it was no use. So while Wade snored lightly next to her, she flipped through old photos on her phone.

The newest photo was from an hour before, the happy couple grinning like children. Frankie went back in time with each photo, though their selfie poses didn't change much. Her heart warmed with each smile, truly realizing how close she'd grown to Wade in less than a year.

As she scrolled back in time, though, Frankie noticed something peculiar about her boyfriend—his face seemed to thicken, his eyes looked a little livelier, his skin was sunnier, and the bags under his eyes were nearly nonexistent. Concerned, she pulled up the newest photo of them and saw the exact opposite—Wade almost looked like a corpse now. She stared at the photo as her heart plummeted into her stomach. How did he turn into this without her noticing?

The truth, of course, was that she had (though not on the scale that he had actually changed). Wade had attributed his changes to work—he wasn't sleeping well, he was always getting sick, he was on the go all the time… Frankie had thought it was odd that he was sick so often, especially when he said he never used to get sick, but it was an unusually hot summer in New York and he was picking up more jobs to help cover rent and food. She had nagged him once or twice to go see a doctor, especially after a long night of vomiting, but Wade always insisted he'd be okay.

But would he? She flipped back to a picture of them from May. He looked so healthy. And now…

Frankie quickly spliced the photos side by side for easy comparison. Then she hastily shook Wade awake.

"What is it?" he muttered sleepily.

"Wade," she said anxiously. "Look… look at this."

Wade took her phone and squinted against the glow of the screen. "It's us."

"Look at you," she clarified, pointing to the May photo. "You were so… and now you're… you need to go to the doctor."

He groaned, handing her phone back to her. "I just need some sleep."

"It's more than that," she insisted, staring at the difference in his face. "Wade, please."

"You're overreacting."

Frankie snapped. "For me? Just one appointment."

"And when the doctor says it's nothing, you'll stop nagging me?"

She relented. "Fine."

"Fine," he echoed. "I'll call in the morning for a Friday appointment."

Friday was only a few days away. Frankie nodded approvingly.

"Okay," she said softly. When Wade realized he was done being scolded, he rested back against the pillow. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said tiredly.

* * *

Wade intended to keep his promise the next morning, but spent most of the morning with his head in the toilet. Frankie watched with grim confirmation that Wade definitely needed a doctor; in fact, she couldn't believe she hadn't forced him to go earlier. Weasel assured her that he was deteriorating so slowly over a period of time that they just hadn't noticed, but every time she heard her fiancé retch, Frankie felt like the scum of the earth.

Though they had a perfect day of sunbathing and swimming planned, Wade spent of the rest of their Wednesday, their last full day in Barcelona, in bed. He insisted that he only needed a quick nap, but Frankie knew this pattern by now: nap for a few hours, wake up lethargic with a killer headache, later, rinse, repeat… While he slept, she made an appointment for that Friday at the doctor.

"You don't need to come with me," Wade muttered for the millionth time that morning.

Frankie intertwined her fingers with her fiancé's and smiled reassuringly. "I bullied you into going. It's the least I could do."

Wade coughed so hard he spat up some phlegm. He shook his head at the sight. "I'm a fucking mess."

Frankie watched as their cab driver glanced into the rearview mirror curiously at them.

"Flu?" the driver said sympathetically. "My boy's got it. It's nasty this year."

"Must be," Frankie agreed. Wade rolled his eyes.

When they arrived at the office—part of a huge medical facility—Wade was immediately ushered into the back for a litany of tests: blood work, x-rays, MRI… Frankie had insisted on running the gamut of exams over the phone just to be safe. They had insurance, though it wasn't much… in the end, she didn't care about the money. She cared about him. But as she waited alone for him to finish up, she couldn't help but worry that he had something worse than the flu.

Waiting was the worst part of going to the doctor, especially after Wade joined her to wait for the results. Her fiancé seemed completely unconcerned with his potential diagnosis, choosing instead to play _Flappy Bird_ on his phone.

"You need to unclench," Wade scolded after an hour of waiting.

"You need to pucker up," she retorted, and he laughed.

Finally, after time on the clock staggered and Frankie nearly paced a hole into the floor, they were called into the physician's office. Frankie anxiously drank in the scene—pristine bookcase and wall decorated with medical degrees, desk covered in papers and knickknacks, and a breathtaking view of the city. Wade, meanwhile, bounced his leg while looking wholly bored.

"Bar after this?" Wade said, pulling her from her thoughts. "To celebrate how wrong you're about to be?"

Frankie tried to smirk, but she had a feeling she looked as sick as he did instead.

When the doctor entered, holding a large bundle of test results and X-ray scans, Frankie immediately knew something was wrong. Very wrong. The doctor hid the exact news behind her stony poker face, but she saw the lingering regret in her eyes. Frankie's heart seemed to stop beating.

Wade said brightly, "What's the damage, doc?"

The doctor sat and folded her hands together nearly. Frankie didn't need to hear her speak to know what she was going to say.

But she still nearly threw up when she heard, "There's no easy way to say this, Mr. Wilson, but you have late-stage, terminal cancer."


	8. Seven

**Danke schoen to Kira Tsumi, CJ/Oddball, dog-tooth, the-stuttering-kiwi, and VampirePrincess11 for reviewing! And thanks to everyone favoriting/following! Drop me a note and let me know what you think!**

* * *

 **Seven**

Frankie's ears rang with an unpleasant nothingness. She didn't breathe. It was like time around her had stopped. She willed her brain to kick back into gear, but it seemed to be stuck in one position: shock.

"You're clowning," Wade said, his eyes wide with surprise and a hint of fear. Frankie watched him with distant interest, as if she wasn't even in the room. "You're not clowning? I sense clowns."

"Many people react to news of late-stage cancer differently. There are certainly options we can look into. New drugs are being developed everyday," the doctor explained.

The room was silent, except for the buzzing in Frankie's ears. Wade looked at her, his mouth slightly agape, pressing her to speak. She licked her lips, shaking her head—out of anxiety, out of response to the news—before her sense of denial kicked in.

"What are our options?" she said. Frankie could feel her confidence soaring through her throat as she demanded, "What can we do?"

The doctor looked grim as she launched into a lengthy explanation about ongoing clinical trials and overseas facilities. Of course, she said airily, she couldn't legally recommend anything that wasn't FDA approved. She'd heard of changes to your diet and exercise habits that could help, too. But when you boiled it down, Wade had one real option.

"It's about pain management at this point," the doctor said. "These treatments and diet changes… they could help. But they'll only prolong the inevitable."

"How long?" Frankie asked.

"Without treatment?" she nodded. "Two, three months. So I wouldn't wait on a decision, Mr. Wilson. But please, don't do anything reckless."

With that, and a bundle of pamphlets, prescriptions, and medical files, they were dismissed.

* * *

Frankie knew one thing—she needed to keep walking. Because if she kept moving, then she didn't have to think about the fact that the love of her life was dying.

They didn't speak on the elevator. Wade kept shooting sad glances at her, and even joked, "You can say I told you so." But Frankie didn't feel like gloating. If anything, she wished that Wade had been right, and all this was just a long nightmare.

She didn't know what to say, or how to say it. So when they reached the street and hailed for a cab, Frankie handed him the documents and said she would run to the store to pick up his prescriptions. She had barely kissed his cheek before sprinting in the other direction, leaving Wade alone with the cab.

The drug store wasn't crowded, and the florescent lights hummed bitterly above her. Frankie wandered the aisles aimlessly as the pharmacy promised to fill her order (with a sad, sympathetic smile… the looks had just begun, but she already hated them). She pretended to pick through shelves of make-up, but she was really trying to plan their next move. Because Wade would not die… he could not die. Someone somewhere had to have a cure for this shit, even if it was in some shady back alley clinic in the middle of nowhere eastern Europe.

Right after the pharmacy paged for her on the loudspeaker, Frankie got a text from Weasel, "How'd it go?" She couldn't reply, so she didn't.

After she paid for the prescriptions, Frankie wandered over to the nearest library for research. Her mind was racing with possibilities—with the need to find a solution. Time seemed to melt beneath her frantic fingertips as she searched for his exact diagnosis and possible remedies. She scoured WebMD, Wikipedia, even low-brow forums for any inkling of a cure—at this point, she would try anything.

But even the internet was reluctant to help. She was able to find some information on overseas clinics, but nearly every website echoed the doctor's sentiment, "At this point, it's all about pain management…" How was everyone but her so willing to give up?! Wade needed a chance, and she was going to find him one.

After she exhausted her internet searches, now three hours after she got the News, Frankie walked home. She still wasn't sure what she was going to say to Wade, but at least now she had a plan—he had a bunch of options to sort through, and they could both go on a cancer-friendly diet in hopes of slowing the disease progression.

When she opened the door, though, she found Wade sorting through clothes on the couch, holding a black duffel bag in his lap, looking sicker and thinner than ever.

"What are you doing?" she said nervously.

Wade didn't look at her when he said, "I've thought about it, Frank. We both know that cancer is a shitshow. Like, a Yaakov Smirnoff opening for the Spin Doctors at the Iowa State Fair shitshow. And under no circumstances will I take you to that show. I want you to remember me. Not the ghost of Christmas me."

"No way," Frankie said fiercely, though her voice trembled. "That's not how this works."

Wade stood and crossed the room towards her. He gently took her face in both of his hands kissed her. Frankie could feel the frustration and sadness from the situation bubbling in her stomach; she thought she might puke.

"I swear to god, I'm going to find you in our next life and I'll boombox Careless Whisper outside your window."

Frankie shook beneath his grasp. Her eyes burned with tears—she could feel her desperation climbing up her throat.

"You don't like that song? Uh, how about a Backstreet Boys song?" he wiped away one of her stray tears. "I knew I loved you before I met you…"

"You're not going anywhere," she demanded shakily. "Sit down, unpack that shit. You're going to be fine."

Wade stepped away from her and crossed his arms. "You're right. The cancer's only in my liver, lungs, prostate, and brain. All things I can live without."

"This isn't up for debate, Wade," she said acidly. Tears poured down her face, but she tried to look as scary as possible. "You're staying home with me where you belong."

"I'm going, so you don't have to watch me wither into the husk of myself," he argued with a joke.

She bit her lip, but couldn't think of anything else to say. She wanted desperately for him to stay—to be okay—but the world seemed to crash around her. Frankie fell to her knees on the ground and sobbed harder than she had in years—maybe harder than she ever had. The sobs rocked through her chest until her lungs physically hurt. Wade wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his embrace.

"It's my fault," she cried; the words wiggled their way up her throat, finally admitting what she had been (nearly literally) running from. "I should've made you go earlier. I saw you getting sick but I just—"

"You didn't put the cancer in my body," he said reassuringly, rubbing her back. "Or did you? If you did, tell me now, it'll make leaving easier."

Frankie sat up and met his stare. His eyes, normally bright and full of life, were glassy and bloodshot. She touched his cheek.

"I need you to stay," she said softly.

"You'll be fine without me," he said.

"That's not true." Wade opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off. "If you go, I'll look for you. I'll find you. I will tie you to this fucking bed if it makes you stay with me."

Wade stared into her eyes, running his thumb over her cheek. She hoped that he would choose to stay… she couldn't function—couldn't live—without him.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he said, "That's kinky."

And despite everything, she laughed.

* * *

Despite her best efforts, Wade's cancer progressed at an unsightly rate. It was only two weeks after his diagnosis that he quit working—he complained his body ached all the time and he just couldn't move the way he used to. Frankie understood, though without her fiancé by her side she too was quit; she understandably had a hard time working in the business of death.

The sudden lack of income wasn't a problem that Frankie had expected to face, but she was willing to deal with it. Weasel took extra shifts at the bar and Frankie taught more classes at the gym when she could; on weeks where they were stretched particularly thin, she worked alongside her brother at Sister Margaret's.

Wade, meanwhile, spent most of his time at home. She had adjusted his diet to include more greens—kale smoothies, wheat grass, and so on—and Wade swallowed each bite with disgust. He did it for her, though, which she both knew and appreciated. She could see him getting sick of her perpetual and forced optimism every time he joked that dying hurt, but she needed to be strong for both of them.

Of course, her strength could only carry them so far. Wade was still his own person and he needed to make his own decisions. But every time he flipped through an overseas pamphlet or information on local clinical trials, he said he'd think about it. That was it. It drove Frankie nuts, but nagging him wouldn't make him decide faster.

On the other hand, Wade didn't have much time to "think about it". Days turned into weeks turned into months… Frankie couldn't help counting down in her head, even though she didn't want to—two months left, one month left…

She was doing all she could. But short of forcing him to go somewhere, she wasn't doing enough.

"I'm dying, Frankie, there's no way around it," Wade said.

"I don't have to accept that," she countered.

"I think at this point you do."

They had mutually decided to take a break from their nearly all-green diet to do dinner and drinks out at Sister Margaret's. Weasel was going to waive the cost of their meal and drinks anyway, but the barflies insisted on buying everything for Wade and Frankie. Though they hadn't been spending much downtime at the bar lately, everyone seemed to be up-to-date on Wade's losing battle and Frankie's optimism. The kindness emanating from these giant, scary men and women warmed her heart.

"Did you think about traveling anywhere? Chechnya seemed okay," she said.

"Isn't that where you go to get cancer?" Wade joked, sipping his drink. Frankie shot him a patronizing look. "I don't know what to say, Frank. When something feels right, I'll go for it."

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "You keep saying that, but nothing's good enough for you."

"We'll see what the doctor says tomorrow."

"She'll tell you what I'm telling you."

Wade knew better than to argue, especially when he saw the tears misting in her eyes. His skeletal hand covered her warm fingers; he ran his thumb up and down her skin.

"I love you," he said. "You know that, right?"

"I love you too," she replied. Which is why it hurt so badly to think that in just a few weeks, Wade could be dead and she'd be alone.

Just then, Weasel appeared at their table holding an empty shot glass.

"Another guy bought you a drink, Wade," he said. "But there's a catch… you have to drink with him."

Frankie swiveled her head around. "Who is it?"

Weasel nodded to a booth a few down from them. "Guy in a suit. I dunno. What're you feeling this time, Wade?"

"Rum and coke me," Wade said. He pulled up his loose jeans from falling; he refused Frankie's offer to buy him new clothes. To his fiancée, he said, "I'll be back in a minute."

* * *

A few weeks ago, Frankie had proposed marriage to Wade.

"Now?" he said skeptically. He was reclined on the couch, his clothes hanging off his limbs. "Have you been snorting my meds?"

"I want to," she insisted. "You gave me the ring, we made the promise… let's just go do it."

"If I beat this, and that's a big if," Wade said, "I will happily bring my miraculous ass down to the courthouse. But I'm not doing it now."

"When you go into treatment, I would feel better having medical authority over you," she tried the logical route.

"You just want the power to pull the plug on me," he joked. When she deadpanned, he said, "I don't blame you. But that's still a big no."

"Wade—"

"Do you know what no in Spanish is? Spoiler: it's no."

"I'm being serious," she said exasperated.

"So am I," he countered. "I'm not tying you to me right now. I can't… I won't do that to you."

In that moment, Frankie saw the sincerity in his eyes. She had wanted to legally be Francesca Wilson, but maybe now wasn't the time. This life wasn't their life.

"Come here," he beckoned. Frankie was reluctant to put her weight on him, but he scooped her into his lap before she could protest.

Wade normally couldn't shut his trap. But in moments like this, sometimes you didn't need any words at all.

* * *

Frankie was thinking of this, and how much she'll miss Wade, when he reappeared at their booth. He was jamming something into his back pocket and looked visibly distracted.

"How did it go?" she asked.

"Fine," he said vaguely. "Same old shit—I'm a hero for showing my face, my butt still looks great in these jeans…"

"The usual," she agreed with a small smile.

Wade smiled at her. He slid back into the booth and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close so he could kiss her temple. When he didn't let her go, Frankie chuckled.

"What's gotten into you?" she teased, though deep down she appreciated the gesture.

"Cancer," he said seriously, and she snorted.

* * *

That night, Wade had trouble sleeping. Ever since he had started his medication, he seemed to have no problem falling asleep, but tonight, Frankie felt him tossing and turning in the spot next to her. His restlessness made her anxious, but she knew what was wrong without asking—he was probably in massive pain, though he almost never complained about it. Frankie tried to wrap herself around him to comfort him, but he stood at her touch and disappeared into the living room, closing the door behind him.

Frankie tried to sleep—she really did. But every time she closed her eyes, she could only see Wade's lifeless body. Her mind frenzied at needing to plan his funeral, pick his grave site, move on… It was nearly three in the morning, but her adrenaline made her feel like it was three in the afternoon.

"Hey," Frankie said softly to Wade.

Her fiancé was stretched out on the couch, facing the dark television. The moonlight poured in through the window, illuminating his thin face, lost in thought.

"Hey," Wade echoed. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. I was… well… you know."

Frankie kissed the top of his head and kneeled next to him. "I don't. I hope I never do."

"Me too," he caressed her face. "If I asked you to, would you stick a knife in my throat right now?"

"Unlikely."

He shrugged. "Figured. It was worth asking."

"If the doctor recommends it tomorrow, I'll think about it," she joked.

"Deal."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, simply watching each other's faces. Frankie tried to memorize the curves in Wade's face, but every time she blinked, his image seemed to disappear. She knew in her heart she would always remember him, but it was unsettling to think there was going to be a future where she wouldn't get to hear the sound of his voice or feel his thumb against her hand.

"Come to bed with me," Frankie whispered, her fingers tracing his arms.

"I can't sleep," he repeated. "I'll keep you up."

"I don't care," she insisted. "Please?"

Wade relented almost instantly. He stood, shaky on his feet, and let Frankie lead him back into the bedroom.

* * *

Wade's appointment wasn't until 11, so he and Frankie slept until 9:30. Then, they began their new normal routine—Wade showered, Frankie cooked, they ate together, and Wade changed for his appointment. He seemed to linger in the bedroom, though she didn't think much of it—his pain made him move slowly sometimes. When he emerged, he was wearing a backpack and a defeated smile.

"The cab's here," he announced.

"Okay," Frankie said. She turned off the TV and approached him. "What's with the backpack?"

"In case I puke on myself on the way over. Feeling really nauseated this morning," he explained coolly.

"Lucky you."

"I know." After a beat, Wade wrapped Frankie in a tight embrace. "Lucky me."

They didn't part for a few moments—definitely longer than a normal hug. Frankie loved his sudden bursts of affection, but it also worried her.

"Are you okay?" she asked once they parted.

"Great," he lied. Wade touched her face for a moment and then kissed her for longer. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said, her gut suddenly swarming with nerves, though she wasn't sure why. "I'll be out by the time you get back, so call me when you're done."

"Sure," he said, then kissed her again. "Better go before the cabbie murders me. Well, on second thought…"

Frankie smirked and playfully smacked him. "Go! I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah," he said dispassionately. Wade's hand gripped the door handle, but he took his time pulling it open. "Later."

Little did she know, when he closed the door behind him, that that was the last time she would see Wade Wilson.


	9. Eight

**I'm so ready for this long weekend. Work has been so stupidly busy. I hope you all have a fun and relaxing time off too!**

 **Many thanks to the-stuttering-kiwi, CJ/Oddball, Guest, and GoshujinsamaZ for reviewing! I'd love to hear from more of you and what you think!**

* * *

Eight

At first, Frankie didn't believe Wade was gone. When she couldn't find him in the apartment, she tried his cell phone as well as Sister Margaret's and Weasel's phones. Wade's phone went directly to voicemail, and neither Weasel nor any barfly had seen or heard from the merc. Panic immediately lodged itself in her throat. What happened to Wade?

Next, she tried local hospitals. Maybe he had gotten to his appointment and needed to be admitted (but why wouldn't they call her)? No hospital in the area—even in northern New Jersey—had record of a Wade Wilson in their care.

Panic then prompted her to call the police, who said they would "keep an eye out for him". She slammed the phone and ran through her options again. But with nowhere to look, how could she find him?

"He's dead in an alley somewhere," Frankie rambled to her brother.

She was pacing their living room floor as if it might spark an idea, but she hated to face it—she was out of leads to pursue. Plus, it had been a little over two weeks since he disappeared, so even if he made it to a clinic somewhere, chances are he was dead.

"Doubtful," Weasel said coolly. "He's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

"His doctor said he didn't even make it to his appointment," she continued, her panicky heart bouncing in its chambers.

"Because he probably didn't go," he muttered.

Frankie turned on her brother. "Do you know where he is?"

His eyes widened with fear. "No. And trust me, if I knew, I'd tell you. I love you way more than him… despite his frequent flirting with me."

She sighed, collapsing on the couch. Wade had been clever in packing—he still had clothes strewn around their room, and even his toothbrush was in their cup in the bathroom. He had seemingly just disappeared, except for one clue: he took a photo of himself and Frankie from the early summer, before his symptoms really started showing. He must have thought she wouldn't notice the missing frame, but its absence spoke volumes to her. She didn't want to admit it, but she knew he left on his own.

But where would he go? Especially without telling her? Her mind darted frantically for an answer.

"Are you sure he didn't leave a note?" Weasel asked, drawing her from her haze.

"Nothing," she grumbled, defeated. "He didn't want me to find him."

Her brother drummed his fingertips on his knees and stared out the window. It was a warm winter day, the sun streaking on the dusting of snow on the ground.

"I'm sorry," Weasel said. "I don't know what to do at this point."

"Me neither," she said.

* * *

Without Wade, Frankie had a hard time functioning. She started dropping classes at the gym just in case he decided to come home and spent most of her time in bed. She didn't have the energy nor the appetite that she used to. Weasel made sure she ate three times a day, but sometimes it was just a bite—enough to appease him so she could stare at the ceiling and wonder what to do with her life.

Even when she wanted to focus on finding him, she had a hard time concentrating on one task at a time. The entire planet was too big of a place for her to search, so she started by calling and emailing the pamphlets for information. Nothing. She kept spreading word of disappearance among the merc community, especially at Sister Margaret's. Nothing.

What was the point of having a network of mercenaries if none of them knew where her fiancé was? Really.

After a month of hopelessly searching, Weasel was ready to help her move on. Frankie, though, was not.

"You should at least clean up his shit," he gestured to her bedroom—Wade's pants from their last dinner date at Sister Margaret's were still hanging off the handle of a closet door.

"Are you saying that's why he left? I wasn't clean enough?" she barbed.

"It's a possibility," he teased. When Frankie pouted, he tossed the wayward jeans onto her lap. "Come on. You'll feel better having accomplished something."

She sighed deeply, trying to push the lingering depression from her chest. When Weasel left her doorway, she held Wade's pants in front of her. She made sure her brother wasn't looking before she took a deep whiff of his lasting scent. The familiarity made her heart ache—she clutched the fabric to her chest and focused on not losing it.

She missed him. She missed him so badly it physically hurt. She kept telling herself time would heal her pain, but she was starting to doubt the universe's power when everyday felt like that first night she discovered he'd gone.

Still, Weasel was right—doing even one menial chore might boost her mood a little. She started collecting more of his shirts, and some of her clothes, from the ground and piled them onto the bed to start a laundry pile. She wasn't sure who she learned it from—maybe her mom on a good day—but she always folded jeans inside out before washing them. And when she tugged on Wade's jeans, a black card fell out of his back pocket.

Her heart stopped. It was all black except for a gold phone number. She immediately dropped her laundry and ran to the living room. Weasel was on the couch using the laptop, but she hastily snatched it from him.

"Hey!" he whined. "I was using that!"

"You can jerk off later," she said, quickly typing the number into Google. "I've got work to do."

* * *

Of course, nothing was ever easy.

Frankie spent the next few days gathering all the information she could about the phone number—she even passed it off to the barflies in case they knew who it was. Two weeks after her initial discovery, Frankie found that the number belonged to a medical facility in a shady part of town. Her heart raced with happiness. Finally, something solid. She would go there, find Wade (or at least an answer), and be done with this mess.

But when she took the cab ride out to the facility, she found it was burned to the ground, the remains long since smoldered. Nothing remained of the building—not even walls—beneath the black mess. And just like that, she was back to square one.

That is, until she got a phone call from her brother late one night.

"Hey," Frankie said breathlessly. "What's going on?"

Weasel ignored her nicety. "There's a woman here who wants to speak with you," he said, his voice low. "Said she knows about Wade."

Frankie bolted upright in bed, more awake than ever despite her lack of sleep. Her anxious heart pounded in her chest. This was it… this was it… this was…

"I'll be right there."

It was nearing three in the morning by the time Frankie got to Sister Margaret's. Nearly every other bar in this part of town was doing last call or was already closed, but the barflies were still buzzing strong inside Sister Margaret's like it was barely the evening.

Frankie nudged her way through the crowd, occasionally saying hello to a familiar face, until she found Weasel at the bar. Her brother looked absolutely exhausted as he wiped down the counter in front of him—ever since Wade disappeared and Frankie stopped working, he'd taken more hours to cover their rent. It was in that moment that she realized how her behavior had been affecting her brother—not for the better.

But then again, that was how it's always been: big Weasel looking out for little Frankie. Even as kids, he tried to protect her from her father—his stepfather. Too bad he couldn't.

"Hey," she said breathlessly, wrapping Wade's old fur lined coat tighter around her shivering body. "Where is she?"

Weasel nodded to a booth in the corner of the bar where a woman with a thin face and dark hair sat by herself, sipping on a clear drink.

"Didn't give me her name," he said. "But she said she knew about Wade. If there's trouble…" Frankie raised her eyebrows in a way that clearly said "I can take care of myself." "Right, you'll deal with it."

"Thank you," she kissed him on the cheek.

"Yeah, whatever," he muttered as she turned her back on him. "Don't get murdered!"

His words rang in her ears as she approached the mysterious, angry-looking woman. Frankie stuffed her hands in her coat pockets, trying her best to look tall and intimidating (though her frizzy blonde waves certainly said otherwise).

Before she could coolly introduce herself, the woman held up a photo of her and Wade—the photo that Wade took with him—and asked, "Is this you?"

Her skin prickled uncomfortably and a ball of nerves formed in her throat. "I—yes—how did you get that?"

"Sit down." Frankie cautiously obeyed, careful to scan the room for anyone else unfamiliar. "Francesca Wilson, right?"

"Frankie," she instinctively corrected. Even though Wilson wasn't her legal last name, she let it slide. "And you?"

"Angel," she said. Frankie couldn't help but raise an eyebrow—she looked like anything but an Angel with her low-cut leather gear, tightly pulled back hair, and matchstick dangling between her lips. "Wade came to the clinic that my partner and I run. That's how I got your photo. He couldn't help showing you off."

Frankie pursed her lips, unsure if she wanted to believe Angel. Sentimental wasn't a word she'd used to describe her fiancé, after all—especially to doctors. (But then again, he did get Frankie a beautiful and deadly knife with her initials carved into the handle for her birthday…)

She finally mustered, "Where is he?"

Angel's stony face softened, and Frankie felt her heart drop even before she spoke, "He's dead, Frankie."

Even though she had been anticipating this news, the air seemed to evaporate from her lungs. A familiar ringing echoed in her ears, and she focused on trying not to cry in front of this strange woman. The truth was too much, and she felt like she might vomit.

"I thought you should know," she continued, ignoring Frankie's red eyes, "That it wasn't the cancer that killed him."

 _Shit,_ she thought, _He was murdered in an alley._

Angel explained, "A madman burned down our building, killing almost everyone inside. I was lucky to escape, as was my partner Ajax. Wade, though… This man seemed to be after him." She slid a picture of a man in a black and red bodysuit wielding swords. "He goes by Deadpool. He was ruthless. We tried to help, but the chaos of the situation…"

The ringing in her ears grew louder and louder until Frankie burst, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because we think you're his next target." Angel didn't mince words, "He murdered Wade, and now he's coming for you."

The thought unnerved her, but she stayed strong. If Deadpool wanted her dead, he'd have to put up a hell of a fight first. "I can handle it."

The woman next to her removed the matchstick and placed it on the table. She took a deep breath before saying, "We can offer you protection, Frankie. Ajax and I… we're highly skilled fighters, and we could train you."

"Why?" Frankie probed.

"More than protection," Angel said. "We can offer you something better… more satisfying… Revenge."

The word hung in the air between them. Frankie had to admit she was tempted. She could refine her skills and be ready for Deadpool when he came… then she could avenge Wade.

When she didn't reply, Angel leaned closer to Frankie. "We'll train you so you can be the one to kill Deadpool. Tell him… Wade sent you."

The idea was completely ridiculous—that she would leave with a stranger, train like a hero, then kill the man who murdered who love. And yet… Frankie couldn't think of a real reason why not to go. What sort of trap could they possibly be setting up? Angel and Ajax wanted revenge because Deadpool murdered their patients and destroyed their hard work, and Frankie…that was obvious enough.

But what about Weasel? She glanced at her brother, who was wiping down the bar, looking absolutely exhausted. She wasn't doing him any favors by being at home. Maybe this could be a start back into merc life. Frankie would send him a check and search for revenge.

 _It could work,_ her brain tempted her.

So Frankie took a deep breath and smiled. "I'm in."


	10. Nine

**I don't know where the rest of you live, but on the east coast of the US, it's been waaaaay too hot lately. I took my dog out for a 15 minute walk this morning and came back dripping in sweat. Ugh! I am not made for hot weather.**

 **Anyway, enough rambling! Thank you to LovelyFandomLover, Guest, CJ/Oddball, the-stuttering-kiwi, and AQUAMXRINE for reviewing. I love hearing from you!**

* * *

Nine

When Frankie woke, she was surrounded by darkness.

Her mind spun unpleasantly. She sat up slowly, cradling her aching head, trying to remember where she was and what she doing. The information trickled back slowly—Wade was dead. Deadpool killed him. And now she was seeking revenge with the help of Angel and Ajax.

The last thing she remembered, though, was leaving the bar with her mysterious new friend. Angel didn't let her say goodbye to Weasel, so she had quickly scrawled a note to him on a used cocktail napkin ("I'm going away. I'll be okay. –F"). She remembered the frozen night air, wondering where they were going, and then…

"Are you up?" Angel's voice startled Frankie so badly she yelped. The dark haired woman clicked on a nearby light. "Sorry about that. It's for security."

"Giving me a concussion is part of your security?" Frankie groaned, rubbing her throbbing temple. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw she was in a small room—no bigger than a closet—with a twin bed, desk that Angel was sitting on, and lamp. "How long have you been sitting there for?"

"It's just in case," she said, ignoring Frankie's latter question.

"I could use some Motrin," she said. "Or a stiff drink. Preferably both."

Angel smirked. "I see why Wade liked you."

Frankie's frustration softened at Wade's name. She lowered her hand to her heart, which suddenly hurt worse than her head.

"Come on," Angel beckoned, hopping off the desk. "You'll like our painkillers."

Frankie wasn't sure what time it was—or what day it was—anymore. But despite not knowing, she swung her legs over the bed and obediently followed Angel. They wandered through dimly lit hallways, sometimes passing by rooms with closed doors, before entering a lab. The walls were gray stone and the beds looked older, but the equipment was pristine—tubes and bags and machines blinking and beeping excitedly at her.

"Ah, she's awake!" a British voice said happily. Frankie turned to see a handsome, thin man in a long white lab coat approach her. "You must be Frankie. I'm Ajax. Welcome to our office."

Before Frankie could say thank you, Angel said, "She needs something for her head. I thought we might start the first round now."

Ajax nodded. "Right you are. Two in one. Please, sit here, Frankie."

Ajax patted an empty medical bed; Frankie wordlessly obeyed. She watched as Angel rifled through a rattling drawer before unearthing a small vial of bronze liquid. She handed it to Ajax, who took a long needle and drew the medicine into the vial. Her chest tightened. Frankie may have been a mercenary—seen death in all forms—but shots still made her skin crawl.

She chattered nervously, "So, um, do you guys only treat cancer patients?"

Ajax smiled warmly at her and took her arm. He rubbed the injection site with a sterilizing pad, then answered calmly as he drove the needle into her arm. "Hopeless cases, mostly. We're sort of a like a halfway house for them. They either die here, or they get better, and we transfer them onto their next life."

The pain of the injection made her clench her jaw, but she managed to answer, "That sounds noble."

Ajax removed the needle and wiped her arm down once more. "I'd like to think we're doing good. Wouldn't you, Angel?"

The woman grunted in agreement. Frankie smiled at her encouragingly, but Angel merely watched her with interest.

"Wade was great," Ajax blathered. "I had high hopes for him, and then…"

Frankie held her breath. She knew how the sentence ended, but she still hated hearing it. After a beat of silence, her pain was gone.

"Whoa," she breathed. "My head… it's…"

"Better?" Frankie nodded. Ajax grinned. "Good. We'll need to keep up the treatment for a bit. It'll help get you ready to fight."

"What's next?" she asked eagerly.

"Disguise," Angel said simply.

* * *

As Angel promised, the first thing she did was cut off most of her hair, straighten it into a bob, and then dye it black. Frankie barely recognized herself when she looked in the mirror, but she knew that if Deadpool had seen her photo, he would never recognize her now. Angel also insisted that she use a codename in the field; she wasn't sure why, but she thought of her stripper name from Miami and chose Mercy.

Over the next several weeks, Frankie was challenged both physically and mentally in ways she hadn't imagined. She spent most of her days fighting—sometimes with Angel, sometimes with other employees of the facility—and receiving oftentimes excruciatingly painful "treatments" that Ajax insisted would turn her into a stronger fighting. Ajax often needed to strap her down so she didn't struggle as he injected her with medicines of all colors and cures. They didn't have a gag, so Frankie would scream so loudly and passionately that her throat was raw by the time the medicine had circulated through her body. They kept telling her that these treatments were for the better, but she loathed each session—especially when they left her feeling exhausted, weak, and sick, so much so she spent hours laying in bed recovering when she should have been training.

Frankie wasn't sure if it was just psychosomatic, but as time went on, she had to admit that she felt her pain tolerance and endurance rise. Moments when she normally got winded, she would dig deeper and fight harder. She was soon able to defeat the grunts she was forced to fight, but Angel was still too tough.

"I've been enhanced," she admitted after one particularly brutal fight that broke Frankie's nose.

"No shit." Frankie spat blood, her chest heaving for air. She was familiar with enhanced people in the community—like the X-Men—but never imagined having to fight one.

"Deadpool is too," she said warningly. "So be ready."

Frankie rolled her eyes at her target's name. She forced herself to stand, and with a quick, excruciating pop, snapped her nose back into place.

"I'm ready," she said, panting, and Angel charged at her.

* * *

After two months of training, Frankie was eager to get out in the field and find the man who murdered Wade. But Angel insisted that she needed more time. So Frankie accompanied the grunts on ground missions, bringing cleared patients to their next stage. She always got a little choked up when she saw the patient being passed off to the new doctor, but she knew it was for the better. Ajax and Angel—however odd their methods—were doing good work, and she was more than happy to support them.

"Another tough transfer?" Angel asked once she'd gotten back to the lab.

Frankie nodded, and Angel frowned sympathetically. Though she insisted she was just a mentor, Angel often lingered after a tough treatment to make sure that Frankie was okay, and during long nights, they shared memories of their childhood-and what led them to this moment. Angel was a nurse looking for more—Frankie was a mercenary looking for revenge. They didn't seem to have much in common, but their bond grew each passing day. More than anything, Frankie thought it was nice to have an ally on her side.

The room was silent while Frankie removed her boots and the suit that Ajax had made for her—it wore like a wetsuit but with protective body armor. It was so comfortable on her body that sometimes Frankie forgot she was wearing it.

"Are you anxious to get out there?" Angel asked. They had had this conversation a few times now—Frankie was never sure what answer she was looking for. Regardless, she always answered honestly.

"Wouldn't you be?" she countered.

Angel smirked at Frankie's candor. "Well… We think you're ready."

Frankie stopped moving. "Really?"

"I've thought you were ready for a while, but Ajax wanted to be sure," she answered, approaching the blonde. "We've got a track on where Deadpool is… we'll send you to him and you'll do what you do best."

Frankie wasn't sure how she felt. She had been waiting for this moment for so long, now that it was finally here, it didn't feel real. She stood, stunned, carefully watching Angel for any sign of deception. But the dark haired woman didn't seem to be lying—if anything, she seemed proud: of how far Frankie had come, how much she achieved, how much she'd grown… Frankie felt a ball of emotion lodge into her throat, and just like that, she couldn't speak.

"Are you okay?" Angel asked, concerned.

Despite everything, Frankie hugged her. "Thank you for trusting me," she said.

Angel tightened the embrace quickly before letting go. "Of course, Mercy. What are friends for?"


	11. Ten

**Hi everyone! I had a few requests to do at least one chapter from Wade's POV, so I did! I think at this part of the story it makes sense. So for the next few chapters, we'll be following Wade before going back to Frankie.**

 **Mega thanks to the following for reviewing: Kira Tsumi, CaptainWilliamsN7, Purdy Girl101, Sonic Key, YaoiLovinKitsune, GoshujinsamaZ, CJ/Oddball, and two Guests!**

 **And to everyone for following/favoriting! I so love getting those notification emails!**

 **Onward!**

* * *

Ten

Wade pressed his hand against the glass door in front of him and breathed hard. He watched with muted interest as his hand imprinted on the surface beneath his grip before slowly fading away.

This was, after all, how he killed time now: hand turkeys on glass windows. If only he could be so lucky with finding and killing fucking Francis.

It had been months since Wade's murderous journey to find the fuckwad who gave him this horrible face—this horrible life—began, but no one seemed willing to give up their boss. Wade thought he saw a glimmer of agreement in his victims' eyes as they died, but he was unwilling to sit down and talk it out with them. Someone would give him up; they had to. Then, once he was fixed, he could find Frankie and they could live happily ever after… or some sappy shit like that.

The anger that perpetually pulsed through his veins softened at his fiancée's memory. Wade missed her dearly—he kept telling himself that he was doing this for her—for them—so they could have a better life. Okay, yes, when he left, he thought he was going to die, but now things were different. Everything was different.

Wade knew that Frankie would be upset that he left without telling her—and probably really, really pissed—but there was no other way around this. In that moment, he knew he was going to die, and he didn't want her to see that. Even if she insisted, she didn't need that extra trauma in her life. He tried it her way, albeit halfheartedly, but it wasn't working. So he packed a small bag with clothes and some of his favorite memories with Frankie and left. Wade had hit "fuck it".

Unfortunately, it led him here—to an empty warehouse near the edge of the city, waiting for Francis's goons to show.

As if on cue, Wade heard the familiar rumbling of a van filled with shitsticks hoping to murder him. He grinned beneath his mask and pushed the door to the building open. Like moths drawn to an electric light, he knew the grunts would find him in no time. And then he'd begin his bloody interrogation.

"WHERE'S FRANCIS?" No answer. Sword to the throat.

"TELL ME WHERE YOUR FUCKING BOSS IS!" No answer. Snapped neck.

"TALK!" No answer. Knife to the lung.

You'd think they'd be more motivated to spill their guts—but Wade noticed they liked doing it literally more than figuratively.

Wade was about to chalk up this raid to another loss—no new leads—and head home to see how Blind Al was doing on the Kunen when he heard a voice that made his heart stop and hair stand up on his arms.

"We finally meet."

When Wade saw her, he didn't react right away; he could have sworn it was Frankie's voice. But instead of his beautiful blonde mistress, Wade was staring at a dark-haired bombshell in a black suit. She had a black mask over her eyes and nose, but her lips wore a coy smirk.

"What's the matter?" she said, hopping off the filing cabinet she was sitting on top of. "Afraid to die?"

Wade snorted. "No, but you should be."

He hurtled his fist towards her, but she blocked it and fought back. Their fighting quickly became a dance—he kicked and she ducked; she punched and he parried. Wade grunted in frustration; he didn't think it would take this long to disarm her.

But then again—as they moved through the hallways, sweating and swearing at each other—Wade thought that this felt like it had happened before. Something about her style of fighting seemed so familiar, so like Frankie…

But it wasn't possible. Wade knew he was being delusional. He missed her so badly that he was hearing and seeing her everywhere—in the streets of the city, on the radio, in one of Blind Al's many stories about her time at a strip club… Wade was constantly thinking about Frankie; it was only natural he'd see her in his everyday life, however odd or murderous the situation was. Besides, Frankie was home safe with Weasel. He knew that even if Frankie tried to leave, her brother would stop her.

Finally, Wade got the advantage. He grabbed the stranger's arm and pinned her against the wall. She struggled beneath his grasp, but she couldn't catch her breath fast enough to retaliate.

"Tell me where your fucking boss is," he growled in her ear. The woman wormed against his grip, but Wade pressed her harder into the wall.

"What boss?" she snarled.

"Francis!"

The woman managed to raise her leg and kick away his grasp. She punched him in the head, temporarily blacking out his vision. Wade fell hard to the floor, concentrating only on catching his breath.

"You can call me Mercy," she said, pressing her sharp heeled boot into his chest.

Wade rolled onto his stomach and swept his feet, knocking her onto her butt. He grabbed her short hair and smashed her head against the filing cabinet, holding her still.

"I don't care," he said impatiently. Why did anyone think he cared about their backstory? Was he being unclear? "One more time: where's Francis?"

She struggled against him, but every time she tried to stand, Wade knocked her back down.

"Who the fuck is Francis?" she snapped.

"Wrong answer," he said, tightening his grip on her head.

Wade slammed her temple against the cabinet once, knocking Mercy unconscious. He wound his arm up to do it a second, then a third, then a fourth time, killing this strange woman, but for some reason, he couldn't do it—his strength wouldn't cooperate. Wade released Mercy, who slumped against the cabinet, now covered in streams of her blood and backed away slowly. Maybe she really didn't know who Francis was, he told himself as a comfort. Maybe she was after him for another reason…

Or maybe this attempt at rationalizing his sudden burst of compassion was the symptom of him missing Frankie. They did look a little similar, he thought, as he watched blood drip from the corner of her mouth. He crouched in front of her and touched her face, hoping to smell Frankie's perfume, hoping to see her beneath the mask. In a sick way, Wade wished that she was Frankie so he could take her back to Blind Al's and tell her the truth.

He needed to get a grip.

Frankie was with Weasel, and he had a job to do. So Wade stole the two knives on her utility belt and walked away from Mercy.


	12. Eleven

**Many thanks to all of you who reviewed: ZabuzasGirl, LovelyFandomLover, CJ/Oddball, EliseWatson, and Ashley1016. You all wanted an update, so here you go! Yay!**

* * *

Eleven

Images of Mercy bleeding against the filing cabinet haunted Wade for the next few days. He wished he had snapped her neck like he was supposed to so he could stop thinking about her. He'd murdered plenty of Francis's female goons in the past, so why was Mercy so different?

Blind Al laughed lowly when he vented about his sudden feelings to her. "I think you know," she said cryptically.

Wade rolled his eyes. "I clearly don't. Thanks for nothing."

He chalked up her vagueness to her being old. And blind. And really bad at putting together IKEA furniture.

So Wade resolved to ignore these nagging emotions and continue with his mission. After some careful spying downtown, he discovered a lead that Francis was going to accompany the next drop off of future slaves and that they would be going over a major highway. If the timing was right, all Wade had to do was create a diversion so he could find Francis in one of the transports.

And that was how he ended up blocking the interstate with a litter of vans, cars, bodies, and 12 bullets.

"Francis!" he sang, skipping down the road. Wade scanned the area for his nemesis, careful not to pass him. "Come out and play, you giant sack of dicks."

A lone motorcycle came barreling towards him as if on cue. He grinned beneath his mask and grabbed a long sword from his back, spinning it in his hand for show. The driver swerved to avoid him, but Wade threw his weapon with pristine accuracy, snagging the bike's tires, toppling the driver.

He fist pumped with victory and ran over to the unconscious man. Wade yanked his helmet off, and his skin prickled with excitement. Finally, he was face to face with his enemy.

"Francis," he said, smacking his cheek over and over. "Francis… Wake up!"

Wade slapped him hard, stirring Francis.

"What the—" he began, then swallowed his words when he saw the man in the red mask. Francis's eyes, once wide with confusion, narrowed with control. "I've heard about you."

"You've done more than that," Wade retorted, then lifted up his mask. "Ringing any bells?"

Francis grinned knowingly. "Oh, I know who you are, Wade Wilson. You're the only moron in this city asking for Francis."

Wade paused. He wasn't expecting this line of conversation. (But then again, Francis had a point… everyone else called him Ajax, so maybe he was murdering all those people for no reason…)

Meh. Now wasn't the time to dwell on these complicated moral issues; now was the time to kill.

"Then I suppose you're expecting this!" Wade drew a dagger dramatically—one that he stole from Mercy.

"Yes," Francis said calmly. His eyes wandered behind Wade, and he broke out in a toothy smile. "But were you expecting her?"

Wade turned at the exact second he heard an engine roar. He saw Mercy aggressively throw the bike from beneath her and jump on his back, choking his airway. Wade stumbled backwards, accidentally freeing Francis, who ran for the bike.

Wade flailed his arms, trying to break free, but Mercy's grip was strong—somehow stronger than even a week ago when they last fought. He managed to elbow her in the ribs and she instinctively let go. When he threw a punch, she went low and swept his feet, knocking him on his butt. Behind them, Francis revved the motorcycle engine and pulled it behind Mercy.

Wade scrambled to his feet, but Mercy was faster. She hopped on the back of the bike and wrapped one free arm around Francis. The other grabbed a knife from her belt. Wade charged at them as Francis hit the gas and Mercy threw the knife, landing just below his heart in his chest.

When the sound of the motorcycle disappeared into the horizon, Wade screamed with frustration. He was so close! This… close! Motherfuckering shit cunt fuck…

Wade kicked at the debris around him until he was sure his foot was broken, then punched the the lingering carcasses of cars around him, shattering his wrist. The pain was immediate, but ignorable. He guessed that was the one perk of having these powers.

Wade collapsed to the ground, his breathing heavy and fast. He didn't know what his next move should be… What was the point anymore? He couldn't even find one guy and fucking kill him. What was he trying to get at, anyway? Someone else besides Francis will rise up in his place and keep doing the same shit. Wade knew in that moment he wasn't being heroic; he was being selfish. But Jesus fuck he hated Francis with every ounce of his being.

After a few minutes of steady, angry breathing, Wade remembered the knife in his chest. He pulled with his good hand with finality, inspecting the new blood on the blade. The knife was kept sharp and well-maintained, though it was clear it wasn't new.

And just like that, Wade's chest swelled with nostalgia for Christmas, when he gifted Frankie her own knife with her initials carved into the handle. It was her favorite weapon—she took it on all their missions; it became something like a good luck charm for them.

He wanted so badly to find Frankie now, but if he did, he was putting her life at risk… Especially now that he knew that Francis knew who he was. After all, that was the easiest way to get his attention—capture the love of his life.

Wade ran his thumb over the dull end of the blade, plotting his next steps: go home, shower, find a new lead… He loathed the idea of starting from scratch again, but it was his only option. What else could he do? Quit this mission and star in horror films?

Wade's eyes followed his thumb to the knife's handle, a beautifully carved maple. And just then, his heart stopped. He brought the knife closer to his face to make sure he wasn't reading things, but there it was, broad as day: F.W. carved into the handle.

* * *

No. No way. New plan.

Wade panted anxiously, his heart hammering so fast he was surprised it didn't break through his chest. He nearly ran back to the apartment to shower and change, and then called his favorite cab driver to take him over to Sister Margaret's. It was still early—before 5—but if Wade knew Weasel's schedule, he would be setting up for the night.

"So things have changed, Mr. Pool?" Dopinder asked curiously.

"Oh yes," he said from beneath the hood of the sweatshirt that hid his face. "Everything's changed."

Wade gripped the handle of Frankie's knife in his palm so tightly his knuckles turned white. He wouldn't let himself consider the option that Frankie was Mercy, because the idea was ludicrous—even he had limits for crazy.

When he arrived (and paid Dopinder with a high ten), Sister Margaret's was quiet, clean, and empty—three things he'd never seen at this place in all his years as a merc.

"Uh, we're closed, dude," Weasel's voice floated from the bar. "You'll have to come back a little… Jesus Christ. Is that you, Wade?!"

Wade pulled off his hood, exposing his new face. Without waiting for a snarky comment from his best friend, he slammed the bloody knife on the counter.

"Why do I have Frankie's knife?" he demanded. "Where is she?"

Weasel's face, once panicked and confused, softened immediately. He didn't respond right away, seemingly searching for the right words to let him down with.

Wade repeated, more urgently this time, "Weasel, where's your sister?"

Weasel sighed deeply, then grabbed two shot glasses from beneath the bar. "We thought you were dead."

"I did too. And then… this happened," Wade explained quickly, gesturing to his face. "It's a long story. But that's not what I'm here for. So tell me: where's Frankie?"

He poured two shots of tequila. "Drink up," his friend said simply, pushing the glass towards him. "Because she's gone."


	13. Twelve

**Many thanks to EliseWatson, F99, and AFAN for reviewing!**

* * *

"Gone?" Wade gaped, his mouth hanging open. "What do you mean gone?"

Weasel fired back, his eyebrows narrowed with annoyance, "What do you mean you're alive?"

The two held a stare that formed a hard rock in Wade's stomach. He had been convinced that he was the victim in all of this when he remembered the way he left—without warning, without goodbye.

So finally, he relented, "I… believed someone I shouldn't have. Said they could cure cancer. I didn't tell you or Frankie where I was going because I knew it was a long shot. I had a feeling I was going to die, and I didn't want her to see it."

"And then…" Weasel prompted, gesturing to Wade's horrible new face.

"I got the cure to everything," he said bitterly.

The words hung between them. Weasel bit his cheek, considering his story. But Wade didn't have time for him to process these events.

"What happened to Frankie?" he asked, afraid that gone meant that she was dead—or worse…

"I don't know," Weasel said resentfully, downing another shot. "She left me a note on a napkin saying she'd be fine. I haven't seen her in months."

"Months?" Wade repeated incredulously.

His friend nodded grimly. "She's dead for all I know. I gotta say, Wade, it really fucking sucks when your two best friends disappear one after the other."

Wade shook his head, noting his friend's emotion but pushing past it to focus on what really mattered. "You have no clue where she went?"

Weasel shrugged. "No one around here has seen her. But…" His eyes widened with recognition. "The night she went missing, she was meeting with a woman who said she knew where you were."

"Who?" Wade demanded. He instinctively slammed his hand on the counter, shaking the shot glasses and Frankie's knife.

"I dunno. Looked like she was on her way to a midnight showing of Blade Runner. Dark hair, angry face, kind of tall, curvy…"

The wheels in Wade's brain snapped together. "Angel." He anxiously drummed his fingers on the counter, the story coming together in his head. "I know her."

"How?" Weasel asked. He picked up his sister's knife, turning it in his hand. "And why do you have this?"

Wade explained, "I thought I was going to a clinic. It had a shady, date rapey vibe, but that's beside the point. Angel worked there for a walking pair of infected testicles named Francis, better known as Ajax."

"Like the dish soap?" Weasel crinkled his nose.

"Exactly!" Wade slammed his fist on the counter with excitement. "That's what I was saying."

"So what happened? Why was Angel looking for Frankie?"

"To get to me," he said simply. "I… kind of burned the place down. They were bad news, though. Bad news bears. They were making fucking super slaves… injecting us with all kinds of crazy shit and selling us off to the highest bidder."

"Is she…?" Weasel's voice cracked.

"Frankie's working for them," Wade said. The admission made his stomach turn, but he pressed on, "To find Deadpool… to find me. I can only imagine what twisted shit they told her to get her under their wing."

He bit his lip. "You think they tested on her?"

Wade remembered her sudden surge in strength. That combined with her increase in fighting skills meant only one thing.

"Yes." Weasel's face was stone. "But probably not to my extent. I just… I have to find her, to talk to her. Ugh! But I don't know where they are."

Weasel was silent for a moment, digesting this information (it was, after all, a lot to take in, even for Wade—especially knowing that with one or two more hits to the head, he could have killed her).

"Well…" Weasel said, drawing out the syllable. "She wants to find you, right?" Wade nodded. "Make her come to you."

Wade considered this for a moment, but his mind was coming up blank. "How?"

"I don't know, man. Send her a text. Go on TV and say you'll be, I don't know, at the junk yard tomorrow at noon."

"Or…" The wheels in Wade's brain were spinning with a devious idea. He grinned widely at his friend, who recoiled at the sight.

"Ugh, could you not make that face at me?" he teased. "You look like something out of a Stephen King movie."

Wade barked a laugh. "Like a testicle with teeth. But I've got an idea."

"I don't like the way you're saying that," Weasel said nervously.

"You're my friend, right?" Weasel nodded cautiously. "Great. I'll be back in, say, a half hour? Make sure your camera is working on your phone."

"Why? What are you up to?"

Wade grinned and pulled the hood back up over his face. "I'm gonna make Frankie come to me."


	14. Thirteen

**We're almost to the end! Crazy how time flies...**

 **As always, thanks to F99, Legolas' Girl 31, CJ/Oddball, Guest, booklover1789, BraziaRios, EliseWatson, and the-stuttering-kiwi for reviewing. Leave me some love!**

* * *

Frankie's head hurt so badly she thought it might split open in her hands. But that was nothing new.

Ajax's vicious words ached against the pulsating pain in her head. She gritted her teeth as she recalled his firm hand whipping her against her cheek so hard so it knocked her off her feet.

Ajax and Angel hated failure. So after the first time, they pumped her full of steroids that made her stronger and quicker. But after the second time, when she "let" Deadpool live again, Ajax deemed her a waste of space and time.

Angel watched with a blank expression as their leader beat the hell out of Frankie. She had hoped that Angel might come to her rescue, but Frankie quickly realized that she was stupid if she thought she was making any positive relationships in this shady hellhole. It only took a few days after her first failure that she began to question the real purpose of Ajax's medical facilities. He may have been a doctor, but really, who was he helping?

Frankie didn't have much time to consider the possibilities, though. Her mission was still clear as far as she was concerned: kill Deadpool. But after two unsuccessful run-ins, where would she find him next?

As she considered the answer to this question, and the possibility of stabbing herself in the temple with her knife, she heard a knock at her bedroom door.

Before she could answer, Angel stepped inside. "We're transporting another patient. Want to come along?"

Frankie said bitterly, "I thought I was too much of a liability. By the way, thanks for watching my shitshow with Ajax earlier. I thought you had my back."

She knew her words might incense Angel, but at this point, she wouldn't care if she was beaten to death.

"That's part of your weakness, Mercy," Angel said, her eyes narrowed. "You're too sensitive."

"My entire mission depends on my emotion," she retorted. When Angel didn't reply, still lingering in the doorway, she snapped, "I thought you were my friend."

Angel snorted, and even though she thought she couldn't feel any more pain, her heart tightened. "Are you coming or not?"

"Not," Frankie said, and Angel closed the door behind her.

As soon as it was quiet, Frankie let out a yelp of pain and reclined on her bed. Sometimes, in moments like this, Frankie wished she'd never answered her brother's middle of the night phone call. Wade would still be dead, but it was becoming clearer to her that revenge may not have been the next best step.

* * *

A couple hours later, Frankie was still curled up in her dark bedroom, her head pounding angrily. She was considering swallowing her pride and asking Ajax for a pain shot when his fist rapped on her door.

"What?" she snapped.

Ajax opened the door, dangling her phone in his hand. "We've got incoming," he said simply, then tossed her the device.

Confused, Frankie turned on the screen. The phone had already selected a new message from Weasel, who she hadn't talked to months. (In fact, she didn't even think that her phone was still around, let around on and receiving messages, but that was besides the point…)

When her eyes focused on the bright screen, she saw a picture of Deadpool giving a thumbs up next to her brother's terrified face. Frankie bolted upright, her heart pounding with nerves.

She read, "You want him? Come get him. Helicarrier crash site in Queens. See you there", ended with a kissy face emoji.

Frankie stared up at Ajax, her mouth agape with shock.

"He has…" she started, but she couldn't persuade herself to finish the sentence.

"Your brother," Ajax said with finality. A small, sly smile crept on his face before he urged, "Let's go get him back."

* * *

Ajax wanted to round up the proverbial troops, but Frankie insisted that they should be the only ones to go. She didn't want to send in fighters only for Deadpool to snap and murder Weasel before her eyes. He was her number one priority. If she also got the opportunity to kill Deadpool, though, then that would just be a happy second.

Even though she'd been on too many missions to count—both here and in her past life as a merc—Frankie's heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest. She thought that by disappearing from her old life that Weasel would be safe. But it figures that her enemy found the one person she cared about more than anything. She cursed herself for being so careless in past missions, for not finishing Deadpool when she should have before. Ajax and Angel were right for punishing her—she was weak.

When they pulled up to the junkyard, Frankie couldn't think. She parked her bike and tossed her helmet close by, Ajax trailing close behind.

"Deep breath," he advised with a sly smirk—one that angered her. Why wasn't he more concerned about her brother? "You can do this. I'll be close behind."

She nodded. She entered the junkyard, the bright sun beating down on her tight, black outfit. If she could feel anything other than the sensation of her heart in her throat, it may have bothered her. Frankie kept her eyes peeled for Deadpool, or for any other traps or tricks. Where was he?

"Yoo-hoo!" Deadpool's sing song voice echoed over the junkyard. Her enemy skipped—yes, skipped—towards her, emerging from behind a pile of junk. "You came! I'm so glad. I was just looking for an old bed frame I might be able to restore. New furniture is so expensive…"

Frankie snapped, her fists shaking, "Where is he?!"

Deadpool pulled a phone out of his back pocket. He approached Frankie casually, like an old friend, and dialed a number. "Ah, that. He's fine."

"Where?" she demanded. Anger surged through her body so viciously she thought she might explode.

Deadpool closed the gap between them; Frankie drew a sword to keep him far enough away as to not hurt her. Before she could open her mouth again, she heard the sound of a click and a dazed, "Hello?"

"Hey, man, can you tell her you're okay?" he held the phone up to Frankie, and there she saw her brother in their old apartment, blinking back at her, looking completely unharmed.

"Hey, I'm home," Weasel said. When she didn't reply, her mouth slightly agape, her brother sighed. "Frankie… It's so good to see you…"

"Alright!" Deadpool said cheerfully, then hung up the phone.

Frankie's mind rang with nothingness. If Weasel was home safe, then why did Deadpool call her here?

"I know, I know. If your brother is safe, why did I bait you to come here?" he said, echoing her exact thought. "I wanted… no, I needed to see you. And Francis. Where the fuck is that shit bag, anyway? He came, right?"

"I don't know who you're—" Frankie started, but she was interrupted by Deadpool clapping his hands together.

"Aha! Long time, no see, pal!"

Ajax emerged from his hiding spot behind a pile of junk, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His lips were twisted in a mix between a scowl and smile.

"What's my name?" he mocked.

"Ajax," Frankie said—she wasn't sure to who. She watched Deadpool and her mentor glare at each other menacingly.

"It's a fake name," Deadpool explained simply. He chuckled, "He got it from the dish soap."

Frankie narrowed her eyes. "But that's… that doesn't…"

"It's like Mercy," he continued. "Sounds too cool to be real, Frankie."

Frankie's mind swirled with these new revelations. Everything was happening too quickly for her to process. She could feel the pressure of the information building inside her until she burst.

"Why am I here?!"

Ajax… Francis… whoever he was laughed darkly, causing a chill to run up Frankie's spine.

"Because I need you to listen to me. I want to help you," Deadpool said, facing her. He reached a gloved hand out to her cautiously, and then said the words that changed everything, "It's me, baby."

The familiarity of the voice made her heart pound so hard she thought she might puke. "What are you saying?"

"It's Wade."


	15. Fourteen

**Hi, everyone! We're winding down on this story-only one (or two, haven't decided lol) chapter left!**

 **Sorry (not sorry) in advance for the cliffhanger!**

 **Thanks to those who reviewed: F99, ThatCrazyLion, CJ/Oddball, EliseWatson, Legolas' Girl 31, booklover1798, ZoraBriallen, and the-stuttering-kiwi.**

* * *

 **Fourteen**

Frankie lowered the sword that was maintaining the distance between her and the man in the red suit. Her skin prickled with recognition of his words, but her mind refused to believe them.

"You're…" her mouth was as dry as her brain, and her heart pounded in her suit.

"Wade," he said again.

Frankie's ears rang with nothingness. She could feel her face grow hot. She opened and closed her mouth, hoping for something—anything—to say, but she couldn't.

Behind her, Ajax uttered a dark laugh.

"You're going to believe him?" he mocked her. "Oh, you are weak."

Deadpool faced Ajax with a raised fist, likely to unleash a torrent of colorful insults, before Frankie demanded, "Prove it."

He stopped mid-step. "What?"

"I said prove it!" she yelled, raising the sword threateningly. "Wade Wilson is dead."

"She's right," Ajax said, stepping towards them. "Mercy's here to get revenge on the man that killed Wade."

"But—" Deadpool started.

"You killed him!" Ajax roared, brandishing a small gun. "Stop playing tricks!"

Frankie looked between Deadpool and Ajax. She swore she heard Wade's voice from beneath the mask… but Deadpool was hunting her like he was hunting Ajax, who had been training her for months for this moment. What could Ajax have to gain from her killing him? Unless…

Her mind spun like a spool of thread. She thought of the many patients they "transferred", sometimes in silver, locked boxes. What if Ajax wasn't telling the whole truth? What if she was bad? What if…

"Frankie," Deadpool said desperately. "Listen to me, babe. It's me. I promise. I knew after you threw this at me." He pulled out the knife that was branded with her initials. "I gave this to you for Christmas."

"He's lying," Ajax snapped behind her. "That's information easily recovered from Wade."

"He's right," Frankie said, her voice shaking. "If you're… Wade… tell me something only he would know."

Deadpool threw the knife on the ground at her feet and groaned. "You have a scar on your abdomen from when you were shot in a strip club in Miami."

"Medical records are easily accessible to his lot," Ajax countered.

"You killed your dad with a knife to the throat."

Ajax said lazily, "It's her signature move. That was also all over the news... an internet search for her name would tell you that."

Frankie's skin prickled at Deadpool's last confession. Very few people knew that… But Ajax was right—Deadpool could have done his research. He could be telling her just so she lowers her guard. But still, her heart pounded with hope though she knew that it shouldn't.

"Here," Ajax shook Frankie out of her daydream. He took the sword from her hand and replaced it with his gun. "You'll need something stronger for a cockroach like him."

Frankie gingerly held the gun in her hand. She wanted her gut to respond with instinct, but her nerves were swarming with anxiety.

"I could have killed you by now," Deadpool said desperately as Frankie examined the gun. "Frankie, please… it's me… I didn't bring any weapons… why would I be talking to you like this if I wasn't telling the truth?"

"Stalling," Ajax said simply, "Manipulation."

"Shut up!" Deadpool roared, pointing an accusing finger at Ajax. "Stop talking to her, you shit sack!"

"Just let her get it done with," he taunted in a breathy voice.

"Quiet!" Frankie demanded, her anxiety boiling inside of her. Despite the noises of the city around them, the junkyard fell quiet. She cocked the gun and pointed it at Deadpool's head. She had a job to do. "Last chance. Prove it to me."

"He can't," Ajax said firmly. "Because he murdered Wade Wilson."

Frankie waited with bated breath for Deadpool to reveal that he actually was Wade—to say something secret between the two of them that could send shivers up her spine. But she knew in her heart that it just wasn't possible—Wade was nearly a corpse when he left, and even if Ajax was an evil scientist, there's no way he could cure a man with stage four cancer ravaging his body. Deadpool was a trained assassin who knew how to get under Frankie's skin—that was it.

But Deadpool didn't speak. Instead, he fell onto his knees on the dirt in front of her.

"You may as well kill me," he said. "This life isn't worth living without you."

"Do it, Mercy," Ajax goaded her. "One bullet, and your mission is done. You're free from the pain."

Frankie took a deep breath, but it didn't steady her shaky hand. She was never very good with guns.

"You were never very good with guns," Deadpool said softly.

Her heart stopped in her chest. "What did you say?"

"He's mocking you. Do it! Pull the trigger!" Ajax yelled.

"Last chance," she said quietly. "Please."

Deadpool didn't move right away. Then, slowly, his hands reached for the back of his mask. He pulled with some force to undo the Velcro holding it together. Deadpool hesitated before totally removing the cloth from his face and then looked up at her with glassy eyes.

Ajax barked a dark laugh. "You're just as ugly as I remember."

Frankie ignored her mentor. She stared deep into Deadpool's eyes. His face was horribly scarred, like he'd been very badly burned. His lips twitched with nerves, and he didn't break eye contact with her, his eyes pleading for her to see inside him.

"No way," she whispered. She shook her head and swallowed a hard lump of anxiety in her throat. "No way!"

"Kill him!" Ajax screamed.

Deadpool pressed his naked temple against the barrel of her gun.

"Do it," he agreed.

Frankie took a deep breath. She knew what she had to do.

She steadied her hand and pulled the trigger.


	16. Fifteen

**This is it, gang-the final chapter! I want to thank EVERYONE for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and subscribing. It means SO MUCH to me to know that you all like the inner workings of my deluded, fangirl imagination as much as I do :)**

 **Thank you again for sharing in Frankie and Wade's journey. You all are the best!**

 **P.S. For those of you who can't stop obsessing about the MCU, I'm thinking of starting a Bucky/OC fic. Keep an eye out for the first chapter!**

* * *

 **Fifteen**

The gunshot echoed through Frankie's ears. She had squeezed her eyes shut after pulling the trigger, but the deafening thud of a body hitting the ground told her that she hadn't missed her target.

When the sound dissipated, she opened her eyes and saw Ajax—or Francis, or whoever he was—sprawled on the ground before her.

Wade said, "Holy shit, girl, fuck me."

Frankie couldn't help but grin at his inappropriate reaction. She turned to Wade and lowered the gun. "Don't think I'm not extremely pissed off at you."

"I know," he said, standing up slowly. He reattached his mask and shot her a sly smile. "But if you think about it, that's really nothing new."

Frankie and Wade met each other's masked stares for a beat. She expected her heart to be more active, but the adrenaline from the situation was still coursing through her veins.

"Do you think he's dead?" Wade asked.

"Unlikely," Frankie said, handing him the gun. "He's milking the moment… trying to figure out how to come back."

"Usually it begins with standing."

"Could be hard depending where the bullet got him."

"Not too hard," Francis groaned. He sat up stiffly and spit a wad of blood from his mouth. "But I could use some help."

"Have you considered Life Alert?" Wade quipped.

Francis chuckled darkly. And then, Angel emerged from behind a pile of tall junk. She strolled confidently up to her mentor and pulled him back onto his feet with one hand.

"Ah, Rosie," Wade saluted her. "How's it going, champ?"

"Wade," she said curtly.

Despite the now very obvious fact that Frankie had been working for the wrong side—one of the bad guys—it still burned her to hear the woman who she thought was her friend and confidant during these last hellish months confirm that she was just a piece of shit all along. Frankie ground her teeth. She loathed that she had been used. How could she have not seen it?! It was all so obvious now.

"Well," Wade cracked his knuckles, "Let's get this over with. Frankie, pick your poison."

She didn't need to be told twice. Frankie charged at Angel, who barreled towards her. The two women collided with fists flying, but Angel got the upper hand. She buried her fist into Frankie's gut, knocking her onto her back. Wade was close behind with a kick to Angel's head and then a dagger into Francis's leg. Francis barely blinked as he removed the weapon from his thigh, but Frankie was faster—she grabbed the weapon from Francis and jabbed it back into his neck. Blood spurted from the impact, but again he removed it, rubbing his neck.

"That's all?" he taunted. "What's my name?"

"Dickless," Wade retorted, and then attacked Francis.

Frankie rebounded onto Angel, who was no longer holding back as she did in training. Unluckily for Angel, Frankie had memorized her mentor's moves, so she could predict when she would punch or kick. Frankie swept her feet, knocking Angel onto her stomach, and then restrained her arms. Her mentor thrashed against her grip, but her super strength helped her hold tightly onto her wrists.

"You don't want to do this, Angel," Frankie warned.

Angel rolled, throwing Frankie off of her back. She pulled a small gun from her hip belt and pointed it at Frankie.

"I kind of do," she said mockingly.

Frankie rolled again away from Angel's aim, bracing herself for impact, when she heard a loud shot. When she opened her eyes, she saw Angel lifeless on the ground, a bullet lodged into the back of her head.

"Samesies," Wade said in a sing-song voice.

Francis roared with frustration. He pushed past Wade and grabbed a hold of Frankie roughly around her neck. Frankie kicked in resistance, but Francis lifted her off the ground, choking her airway.

"Do you want to know the truth?" he hissed in her ear. "This was never about you. Wade was supposed to kill you."

Frankie swung her legs upward, forcing her weight down, so Francis dropped her. She rolled away from him, rubbing her neck and catching her breath. In a second, Wade was next to her, helping her up.

"I'd kill her, then see what I'd done, then spiral into a black hole of depression?" Wade posed. When Francis didn't immediately confirm, he teased, "Spoiler alert: I've been there, buddy. Shit can't get much worse."

"Want to bet?" Francis pulled a gun from his backside and cocked it. "If you come over here, Mercy, I won't kill him."

"See, that's the problem," Wade said mockingly. "I thought you'd've figured it out by now."

Francis lowered the gun slightly. "What's that?"

Wade charged at the man, and Francis fired the gun. Frankie gasped so loudly she almost couldn't hear the bullet as it pierced Wade's abdomen. Blood pounded in her ears and her vision went black.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw Wade pounding Francis's face into the ground. She clearly saw an exit wound in his back dotted with blood, but he was still alive.

"Wade…" her voice shook.

"I!" Wade punched Francis with each word. "Can't! Die!"

After another few whacks, Wade rolled off of Francis, panting heavily. Frankie fell on her knees next to him, her heart now pounding unpleasantly. If Wade can't die, what did that mean for them—for their future? She felt silly worrying about such a detail at this moment, but the thought plagued her.

"Ow!" Wade panted, shaking out his hand. "That fucking hurt. But it was worth it."

Despite everything, Frankie forced a smile. She placed her hand on his chest and still felt a heartbeat despite his status as immortal.

"You'll live forever," she said softly.

"Yeah," he said, still breathing heavily in pain.

"I won't," she said.

Wade caught his breath and lay still for a moment. "I know," he said. "Though I imagine a gunshot to the head would've done it. I'll give it a try after you croak."

She barked a laugh. "So romantic."

Next to Wade, Francis moaned. He tried to roll onto his side, but Frankie was too quick—she pressed the heel of her boot against his sternum. From his back, Wade tossed her the gun. Frankie cocked it and pointed it at her former mentor.

Francis laughed darkly. "This is delicious."

"I'd say so," she retorted.

Wade crawled to his feet, also towering above the enemy.

"You don't do this," Francis said mockingly. "Francesca Wilson doesn't shoot to kill."

"Maybe not," she agreed, looking at Wade. He reached for the gun—their pattern for over a year—but she didn't relent. "But Mercy does."

And she pulled the trigger, killing Francis.

* * *

After a few moments, once the air stopped ringing with their victory, Frankie collapsed on the ground far enough away from Francis to avoid staring at his corpse. She removed the sweaty mask from her face and tossed it to the side. Though she should have felt relieved, instead, her emotions overwhelmed her. She could feel a hard lump of sadness stick in her throat, and she tried hard to not cry.

Her mind was running a million thoughts a second, refusing to land on any statement or idea. It was over—this was finally over. She'd done it—she avenged Wade and found Deadpool. But now what?

"You did good, kid," Wade said, squeezing her shoulder affectionately.

"Not really," she muttered. She thought of the "cancer" patients she helped transfer, suddenly realizing what they were. "I helped move super slaves. I almost murdered you."

"You didn't know."

"I should have," she said bitterly. "But I was so desperate for an answer…"

"I know," he said. "I probably would have done the same."

"And speaking of," she raised her voice, turning to face Wade angrily. "How the fuck could you leave me like that? Why didn't you tell me you were okay?"

Wade removed his mask again so she could see his honest eyes—the eyes she could never forget no matter how different his face was. "I went to Francis's place with the hope of getting a cure and knowledge that I'd probably die. When I lived… Frankie, I wanted to find you, but I wanted to fix this first."

"You thought I'd turn you away?" she snapped, looking at his burned face. "Because, what, you don't like look a Playgirl model anymore? That's the stupidest shit I've ever heard, Wade."

He flinched at her words, but insisted, "I thought that you wouldn't want me."

Frankie's anger boiled over into sadness. She approached her fiancé and gently touched his face, now rough with wrinkles. She pressed his hand against her thundering heart and then kissed him.

"I always do," she said softly. "Because I love you, you giant ass wipe."

He snorted a laugh and kissed her back. After a few moments, Frankie thought of her brother.

"Did Weasel know?"

Wade shook his head. "Not until very recently. Like, today. Turns out you're good at deserting people too, though."

Her face froze. "I suppose."

Wade gave her a small smile. "We can make it up to him. He'll forgive us."

Frankie didn't say anything for a few minutes, instead digesting what had just happened—and the enormity of what needed to happen next. She caressed Wade's face, waiting for him to say a smart ass comment that would make everything better.

"We should go home," he said gently.

"That's it?" she asked. "Go home, go on with life?"

"Unless you prefer to clean up?" he gestured to the two bodies around them.

Frankie shook her head. "Not really."

"Me neither." Wade pulled out his phone. "I'll call a cab. Maybe we can get dinner at Sister Margaret's. But we should probably shower first. You smell like shit."

"You too, dick weed."

"Dick weed's my new cologne," he joked, typing into his phone.

Frankie barked a laugh. "I figured as much."

When Wade was done, he put his phone back into his pocket and took Frankie's hand.

"He'll be here in a minute," he said, then nodded at the bodies around him. "Should we say a few words? Take a moment of silence?"

"How's this for last words?" Frankie spit on Francis's dead body. "Suck my ass."

"Didn't know you were into that now," Wade teased.

Frankie smacked him playfully, and he dissolved into laughter.

"It was much quieter without you around," she told him.

Wade smiled. "And now you're stuck with me, baby."

Frankie kissed him, gleefully tasting him once more. "That's all I ever wanted."


End file.
